


Moth

by ronnie_vfs



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Detective AU, M/M, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension, mentions of bipolar disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-01-26 14:53:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1692359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronnie_vfs/pseuds/ronnie_vfs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey is trying to sleep when the department calls to reveal a newly murder. Detective! AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mickey is trying to sleep. It’s six o’clock in the morning, the sky still fairly dark outside the window, and Mickey can only catch a glimpse or two of the pale sunshine through the thick, stained curtain. He stares at the ceiling, noticing a corner covered with aged grease spots, the color too dim to be noteworthy. He wonders how they ended up there; did spider man crawl up there and eat a fucking hamburger? It’s kinda creepy having someone clinging to your fucking ceiling while you have absolutely no idea about it.

Shit. Mickey let out a frustrated sigh, giving up on his useless attempt to sleep, and stumbles out of his crappy single bed. He nearly trips over a beer can on his way to the bathroom, the mess reminding him of his old bedroom he owed when he was 14. He’s been trying to maintain his room clean since then cause that’s what his foster father wants. And Mickey figures, why the fuck not? It’s not like he’s incapable of picking up some trash.

The bathroom smells like the lemon body wash Mickey’s been using lately. Mickey hates lemon, but it’s better than that fucking strawberry one Mandy bought him last month. She knows Mickey wouldn't read the label, and when he walked out of the bathroom that day, smelling like a goddamned strawberry, bitch laughed so hard she literally fell off the couch. She’s just obnoxious like that.

Turning up the tap, Mickey splashes some water on his face, and looks up in the mirror. He hates how he looks sometimes, with that pale skin and the dark circles under his eyes. He can’t remember the last time he actually slept for more than four hours, and Mandy thought he’s got insomnia, telling him to see a shrink or something, but Mickey refuses to go. He’s a detective, not a nutjob.

His phone suddenly rings, breaking the silence in his apartment. Mickey sighs again, tiredly rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes, and paces towards his living room to get his phone.

“What?” he asks, lighting a cigarette, taking a long drag of it, and stares blankly into his poorly lit room. He can hear the cars horning and beeping outside in the streets, along with some neighborhood kids screaming and giggling and fucking singing- why the kids should have such energy is a misery Mickey can never solve. He was never like this when he was at that age.

“Oh, and good morning to you too, Detective Milkovich.”

It’s the dispatcher chick from the department. Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose. “So there’s a new body huh?”

“Yep, just found it 15 minutes ago.”

“Shit.” Mickey glances at the clock. Obviously the captain expects everyone to be good to go at six fucking thirty in the morning. But well, what else could he do anyway? “Where’s it?”

Mickey hangs up and walks into the kitchen, making himself a cup of black coffee after the dispatcher gives him the address of the crime scene. He can still hear the kids singing vociferously, which makes him seriously consider if he should just push open the window and shout at them, or threaten them with the FUCK-U UP on his knuckles, but finally decides to do something good and leave them alone. After all, he’s not in the South Side anymore.

He downs his coffee in one swift move, grabs his jacket, and bolts out of his apartment.

+++

When Mickey arrives at the crime scene, it has already brightened, with the creeping tide of light gained gradually. The place is somewhere near a highway, pretty deserted, a wide stretch of desolate farmland spreading in front of Mickey, like some broad, lousy blanket of dull yellow. 

The police are already there, isolating this little patch of jinx with those boring barricade tapes. One of them spots Mickey, and instantly waves at him in an oddly cheerful way, as if they are in an amusement park rather than a fucking crime scene. Mickey nods at her. Heather was the first actual person who welcomed him the first day he came to Chicago PD. She’s a little too passionate if you ask him, but they've been friends nonetheless.

“So, how’s the body?” Mickey asks, taking over the gloves Heather offers to him. 

She shrugs. “Nothing special. Guy got stabbed in the stomach.” 

“Bloody?”

“Quite decent as a matter of fact. You should check it out yourself,” Heather pauses, before breaking into a sneaky grin which involuntarily reminds Mickey of Mandy. Girls are all so difficult to understand. “By the way, you've got a new partner.”

Mickey frowns. “What?”

“You heard me. A new partner. Right over there,” she points to a bunch of guys who are talking about something under a withered tree, most likely where the body lies Mickey supposes, and he has his eyes on a particular redhead straight away. He’s tall, like really fucking tall, with a dimly freckled face and eyes of emerald green. He looks like Mickey’s age, maybe one or two years younger than him, vitality practically written all over his whole body. He’s exactly the type Mickey hates: driven, full of life, and way too fucking attractive.

“What’s his deal?” he asks, biting his bottom lip.

“Just got transferred from New York,” said Heather, “Rumor says he’s got an offer from Quantico, but he insisted on coming here.”

“Weird.”

“LOYAL.” Heather doesn't even bother to hide her crush on that redhead, “Anyway, he’s your partner now. So at least play nice.” 

“I hate partners,” Mickey mutters, and picks his way over the tape.

He notices the body the minute he gets closer. It’s a male, possibly in his late 30s, face as pale as a sheet, eyes wide open like he couldn't believe what’d just happened. And Heather was right. It is decent. There’s not much blood on the body despite of the deep cut in his abdomen, only spots of bloodstain here and there. It’s almost like he was killed somewhere else and was cleaned a little bit before being carried and dumped here.

The redhead turns around at Mickey’s approaching footsteps. His eyes are even greener in the dazzling daylight. 

“Mickey Milkovich?” he asks, although it sounds more like a blunt statement than a question. “My name’s Gallagher. Ian Gallagher.”

Mickey’s kind of relieved that Gallagher didn't reach out his hand. Mickey doesn't shake hands. “So they say you’re my new partner.”

“Yes,” Gallagher smiles and Mickey’s not sure if he’s seeing things but this kid seems really nervous, like finally meeting his fucking pen pal or something. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“About what?” Mickey gives an unamused snort, “My bad temper, my tattooed knuckles, or my abusive biological father who got stabbed in jail? Oh, did they tell you that I once beat the crap out of my last partner? Guy’s such a piece of shit.”

For a moment, Gallagher widens his eyes, clearly unprepared that his new partner should be this aggressive. But just when Mickey’s convinced that he’s successfully scared this redhead away, Gallagher softens his look, and actually has the balls to break into a smirk. “Um, no, they didn't tell me those. Just that I’d learn a lot from you.”

“Yeah well, if you wanna know how to give the finger,” Mickey rolls his eyes, and tears his gaze away. What this Gallagher kid really needs to learn, is how to control that fucking smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What have you got?”

“Oh, uh, looks like a robbery gone wrong,” Gallagher steps aside, allowing more space for Mickey to observe the body. “Wallet’s gone. So is the watch.”

“So we can’t ID him yet?”

“Afraid not.”

Mickey looks over the body in an attentive manner he rarely possesses. Strangely, when looking closer, he has a feeling that he’s seen this guy somewhere before. Those two moles above his left eyebrow are relatively distinctive.

“But between you and me,” the redhead says, “I think he’s murdered.”

Mickey sniffs, straightening up, “We don’t ‘think’. We investigate.”

“Yeah, well,” Gallagher retorts with an annoyingly confident tone, “Who the fuck would be robbed at a place like this? You know I’m right. And you totally agree with me.”

“Whatever. You still need proofs rather than a mere assumption to file this as homicide,” Mickey takes off his gloves, waving at the CSI guys to come here and take pictures, and turns around to leave. The redhead follows almost instinctively, eyes focused on Mickey’s face so intensely Mickey feels a terrible heat threatening to creep up on his cheeks.

“Where are the MEs?” he asks. Because he has to say something, or he would just probably run away to avoid those burning hot glares shooting from the redhead. And when did Mickey Milkovich ever run away before? 

“Should be here any minute,” Gallagher replies, walking side by side with Mickey, “Where are we going?”

“It’s ‘where are you going’, Gallagher,” Mickey manages to put on his best sarcastic grin. “You’re not going with me.”

Gallagher stops. “I’m not?”

“No.”

“But I’m your partner.”

“So?”

“Partners are supposed to be together all the time,” the redhead now sounds like a kid who’s just been told he’s banned from candies forever, eyes practically screaming ‘Please’, “Besides, it’s our first day.”

Mickey wants to say NO. Because he’s just that cruel. But Ian Gallagher’s puppy eyes are playing some death tricks on him, and he’s so exhausted due to his fucking insomnia that he loses the ability to think clearly, and Gallagher’s right. It’s their first day working together. Way too early to handle a hysterical Captain if that old man finds out Mickey’s still on his own anyway.

“Fine,” he scowls, “But I have rules.”

“Sounds fair enough. what rule?” the redhead is grinning again, like he’s just taken down the most dangerous gang in Chicago. And how is it possible that someone, anyone, could pull off a grin like that? With a fucking body nearby? It’s not fair at all.

“Mickey?”

Okay. That’s it. “First, don’t talk too much,” Mickey snaps, “or preferably, don’t talk at all.”

Gallagher nods obediently, and actually shuts his mouth, raising his hand to pretend to zip up his lips. 

Well, Mickey definitely doesn't find that gesture adorable as hell.

+++

It’s a miracle that Gallagher indeed hasn't said a word during their ride back to the department. If Mickey is 120 percent honest to himself, he’d say he’s really impressive, and a little bit, only a little bit, disappointed. He tells himself it’s because he prefers to listen to Gallagher babble about random things instead of the shitty music playing on the car radios.

The department is busy as always. Nobody pays attention to them as they walk into the office; only a scantily dressed hooker sitting on a bench looks up to check out Gallagher and whistles at him. Mickey laughs quietly at the kid’s slightly reddened face.

“So, where is your table?” he asks, settling down in his antiquated leather chair. He doesn't get the answer though, as Gallagher raises an eyebrow, and points to his tightly closed mouth. Mickey rolls his eyes. 

“Fuck off.”

Gallagher smirks in triumph. “Just opposite yours,” he sure knows when to stop teasing Mickey, as if they've known each other for a whole lifetime. It’s a bizarre kind of feeling that Mickey would rather not to think about. 

He then notices the exceptionally cleanliness of that table opposite his. It was always unoccupied, since Mickey was out of partner for more than a year, books and paperwork and all kinds of rubbish cluttering everywhere. But now it’s basically spotless, with a few photo frames placed in neat order, and a fucking teddy bear sitting in the corner.

Gallagher blushes when he realizes what Mickey’s staring at. “My little sister gave me that when I enlisted,” he explains, as though that could justify everything. 

“You were in the army?” Mickey’s a little surprised. No wonder Gallagher’s got that military haircut.

“Enlisted right after my 18th birthday,” Gallagher shrugs, “I've always wanted to be an officer when I was little, but my grade wasn't good enough for the West Point, so…” 

Mickey never thought about his future when he was little. He was sure he’s fucked for life anyway, living with a father like Terry. He was still convinced of that when Craig adopted him and Mandy after Terry died, and it was about two years later, when Craig bought him a second-hand Mustang as his 16th birthday gift, telling him he was proud of him and had faith in him and fishing out the geometry test paper Mickey threw away the other day with a bright red A on it, that Mickey knew he could, and should fight harder for himself, and for his old, bald foster father. 

“Well,” Mickey mutters, “Guess you’re a patriot then.”

Gallagher smiles tenderly. “I’d like to think so.”

They are both quiet for a moment before Gallagher speaks again, breaking the silence between them. “Um, I think I should go check up on the autopsy.”

Mickey nods, watching the redhead striding towards the forensic lab, and grabs the fluffy teddy bear to poke it in its bulging stomach.

+++

Mickey always knows he has a fantastic memory, but it doesn't stop him from feeling a little cocky when he digs out the faded wanted photo, with their dead guy’s face printed on it. He’s so contented with himself he doesn't even catch the gentle footsteps behind him, and nearly jumps when that fucking Gallagher blows softly on the back of his neck.

“Fuck, Gallagher!” Mickey growls, the urge to wipe that stupid grin off the redhead’s face with a steel bar almost overwhelms his poor sensibility. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“Sorry,” Gallagher apologizes, still grinning like a maniac, “Didn't know you were this sensitive.”

Mickey just gives him the most eloquent finger.

Truth is, if Mickey were still 18, he would have punched the redhead right in his stomach to teach him a lesson about never messing around with a Milkovich. But he’s 27 now, sitting in a fucking office, wearing a badge that could be easily taken away from him if he ever dares to lay a finger on his delicate colleagues again. Yeah. The Captain has made that pretty clear.

So Mickey decides to be a generous man and cut Gallagher some slack. And no, it’s not because Ian Gallagher is frigging cute and is staring Mickey with those ridiculously green eyes, it’s because Mickey genuinely likes his job, no matter what other people would think. 

Besides, it’s sort of hilarious watching the way Gallagher sneak a peek at him, as if the kid’s trying to find out whether he’s actually mad or not, while not-so-subtly changing the topic by asking, “Is that our guy?”, and pointing to the photo held in Mickey’s hand.

Mickey sighs, before admitting, “Yep. Isaac Welch.”

“He’s on a wanted photo? What’d he do?”

“He was a hitman.”

“Shit.” Gallagher curses, which Mickey could perfectly empathize with, “So he probably has tons of enemies who’d happy to ruthlessly murder him.”

“Exactly. And last time I checked, he was still hanging around in Europe.” Mickey lets out a dryly laugh, “What did the ME say?”

“That he died somewhere between 12am and 2am,” handing over the autopsy report, Gallagher answers, “He was stabbed in the liver and died of excessive blood loss. Nothing special.”

Which means they've walked into a dead end. Mickey’s pissed. “We’ll have to find out where he was the last night.”

“About that…” Gallagher gives him a suspiciously long look, before showing Mickey one of the crime scene photos. It’s a picture of Welch’s wrist under an UV lamp, a round blue pattern shining vaguely on it.

“What the fuck is this?” Mickey asks.

“It’s a club stamp, grandpa,” Gallagher smirks, earning a disapproving glare from his new partner, “I think it belongs to a club called, uh, Nightingale?”

What kind of name is Nightingale? Mickey’s never heard of it before. “For a guy from New York, you sure know a lot about this shithole.”

Gallagher raises an eyebrow, “I never said I was from New York,” he licks his bottom lip, and watches Mickey with an odd expression on his face. “You really don’t remember me at all, do you, Mickey?”

Mickey frowns. “Should I?”

Gallagher sighs dramatically, hands waving in the air, “I was born and raised in the South Side, Mickey. I’m a fucking Gallagher!”

Mickey’s eyes widened slightly, finally connecting this Gallagher with that fucked up family in the back of his mind. “Wait. You mean you are Frank Gallagher’s son?”

“Well, technically I’m not his but… yeah,” Gallagher smiles at Mickey, warm and happy, reminding the older man of a fucking daisy Mandy once brought home, “I was only 13 when you got adopted though. You probably never noticed me. I have to say, you haven’t changed that much.”

Mickey snorts. “If you mean my height hasn't changed that much, I will cut you in pieces.”

“Well, that too, yeah.”

Mickey kicks him hard under the table, and turns back to search online for that club. 

It surprises him a little when Gallagher drags a chair over here and sits right next to him. They are so close Mickey’s sure they are literally only a breath away, and smelling that delightful scent of soap drifting from Gallagher’s skin is starting to make Mickey think about something really, really inappropriate. Shit. He was mad at that redhead only five minutes ago. Mandy’s right. It’s been too long since he got laid.

“You know,” Gallagher opens his mouth, lips almost touching Mickey’s earlobe. “I've met Mandy.”

“You did?” Mickey tries very hard to keep his voice as nonchalant as before.

“Well, she met my brother first, in a campus tour or something. It’s quite rare to run into a South Sider so we had dinner together. I was still in the army back then. She’s a nice girl.”

“She never told me that,” now Mickey’s kind of annoyed. Neither one of the Milkovich siblings is a big fan of sharing secrets, but they do talk to each other about what’s new in their lives or some shit like that. And why has Mandy never mentioned a word about these Gallaghers?

The redhead shrugs sheepishly. “Things are complicated, I guess.”

“Complicated? How?” Mickey asks, eyebrows knitted in confusion, before he turns around and his nose nearly bumps against Gallagher’s and he hates, he fucking hates the way Gallagher’s face flushes immediately, like a 14-year-old girl who just loses her first kiss. Jesus. This is a guy who claims to be ‘born and raised in the South Side’.

Mickey clears his throat. “Your brother slept with her?”

Gallagher scratches the back of his neck nervously. “Um, I would use the present tense.”

“Shit,” Mickey grabs a cigarette, as he suddenly remembers they’re still in the office and grumpily throws it away. He needs some fresh air. “Time to go to that fucking Nightingale,” he mutters, standing up.

“But how do you know it’s Lip who sleeps with her?” when they reach to the parking lot, the redhead asks a question that Mickey is definitely not ready for. “You didn't assume it’s me?”

Mickey doesn't know how to respond to that. Of course he could simply say no, he didn't assume it’s him at all, but he can’t explain why. Maybe he just wishes subconsciously, that it’s not Ian Gallagher. Maybe in the privacy of his head, he wishes something more.

“You are too good for that bitch,” he manages to squeeze out a lame excuse somehow, and gets into his car.

Gallagher smiles. “Aww, is that a compliment? And here I thought you didn't like me.”

“I don’t,” Mickey groans. Why this redhead could keep challenging him like this is completely beyond him. “So get in and shut up, before I change my mind and slit your throat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate Terry SO MUCH I sincerely hope he would get stabbed in jail in S5 (｀へ′)


	2. Chapter 2

As it turns out, the Nightingale, despite of its rather artistic title, is a strip club. It's still closed when Mickey and Ian arrives, dim blue lights hovering over the vacant lobby, with some soft music lingering in the background. Looking around, Mickey notices some girls dancing on the centered stage, probably practicing their moves for tonight. They’re all young and beautiful, which makes Mickey wonder what they would be thinking when dancing there, having all kinds of men drooling over their hot bodies. But who is he to judge what people do for a living? As far as he knows, he could have been a fucking pimp if he hadn’t been adopted in the first place.

A blonde steps off the stage and walks towards them. “You should come later,” she ogles at Gallagher, licking her lips, fingers tracing patterns on the redhead's chest while fully intending to go somewhere south. Mickey sighs heavily. What a warm welcome. 

“Hands off that cock,” he can’t help but rolling his eyes.

“Oh, that your cock?” she teases with mock horror, but withdraws her hand anyway.

Mickey scowls. “No, but we are with the Chicago PD,” he shows her his shiny badge, and looks sideways at the redhead, who just smiles at him sheepishly. Apparently, Gallagher didn’t take her joke as seriously as Mickey did.

“A cop with FUCK-U UP tattooed on his knuckles?”

“Shut up,” Mickey grunts. He's not offended though, since he’s been asked the exactly same question from day one, and is quite used to it now. One of his former partners once asked him to remove those tattoos, but Mickey just told him to fuck off. Sometimes he thinks he prefers to remain some South Side in him. “Who’s the manager?”

“That would be me,” a young woman approaches them. She’s pretty, dark hair falling over her shoulders in curls, and is wearing a pair of sunglasses that makes her look way too suspicious.

Mickey has to ask. “You got a habit wearing sunglasses indoor?”

“Well, it depends,” she laughs, and takes off those sunglasses to reveal a black eye. The blonde girl beside them inhales sharply at that.

Mickey raises an eyebrow. “What happened?”

“My husband happened,” she shrugs, clearly having no interest in discussing this topic. “Anyway. What can I do for you, gentlemen? Anything wrong?”

Gallagher hands her the picture of Welch. “You recognize this man?”

Before the manger could even get a chance to glance at the photo, the blonde takes it away, looking utterly surprised, “That’s Tommy. Tommy Parker,” she points to the two moles above the dead man’s eyebrow, “I remember those moles. He’s a regular, coming over here every Friday, sometimes weekends too. I lap danced for him once,” she pauses unexpectedly, before giving Gallagher a flirtatious wink, “I could give you a discount if you want.”

The way she smirks at the redhead makes Mickey feel a little sick in his stomach.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Gallagher declines tonelessly, “He’s been a regular for how long?”

Mickey’s sort of satisfied with Gallagher's unimpressed reaction, not that he would ever admit it. The blonde seems to finally get it too, backing up with a histrionic pout. “Maybe a month? I can’t remember.”

“Yeah, a month sounds about right,” the manager cuts in, taking over the picture and studying the pale face carefully. “Kim’s right. He’s Tommy Parker. He always gives one of the best tips. Generous man, cranky though. What’d he do?”

“Got killed,” both of the women exclaim at this horrible news. “Found his body this morning.”

“Poor man,” the manager sighs in disbelief. “Amber must be devastated.”

“Amber?”

“Oh, she's his favorite. He must have spent at least a grand on her,” the manger looks around, but fails to find that girl, “I can give you her number if you wanna talk to her.”

“Maybe later,” Mickey acknowledges her spirit of cooperation. “Thing is, do you happen to know where he lived?”

The manager shakes her head apologetically. So the strip club doesn’t keep a record of every detail of their customers then. Mickey murmurs an ‘of course’, and is more than ready to go back to the department to search all the hotels and rental houses in this whole fucking city on the name of Tommy Parker, when the all-mighty blonde stripper speaks the love of the God. “I know where he lived. I overheard it when he talked to Amber before.”

Mickey decides the goo-goo eyes she keeps making at Gallagher is not that intolerable after all.

+++

The building Welch lived in is like a giant piece of antique. Even the superintendent is old enough to be Mickey’s grandmother, barely capable of understanding the requests made by Mickey. It is Gallagher who eventually takes care of this difficult old woman, with his bright smile and his intoxicating green eyes and his sexy voice that could easily take down all the women in the world. Well. Maybe men as well.

Mickey raises his eyebrows as he enters Welch’s apartment, and mimics the grandma’s tone with the tenderest voice he can ever manage. “Oh sure, sweetheart.”

Gallagher laughs and turns around to make sure the door is fully closed behind them. “Shut up Mickey.”

“Do you mind giving me your number so I can invite you to dinner and we can have some good time together?”

Gallagher laughs harder, and gives Mickey the finger.

Mickey grins. “Good. Now you are learning something from me.”

“Don’t be a jerk,” Gallagher protests, but there isn’t any heat or bite behind it. If anything, he seems quite happy that Mickey would joke around with him. Just like a puppy, Mickey thinks to himself.

Shit. He really should find someone to fuck him before these entire Gallagher-related thoughts float to somewhere he can’t control.

“Okay, let’s find out if there’s anything odd here,” he mumbles, looking away from Gallagher’s innocent face. 

The apartment is nothing but tiny. The living room, where they are standing, hardly has the space for television, congested already with an armchair placed in it. It’s also strikingly messy; Mickey has to make his way through a mass of garbage- drinking bottles, take out boxes, back issues, filthy clothes- to get into the man’s bedroom. It’s pretty hard to imagine that this abominable flat would belong to a hitman who was willing to dissipate a large amount of money on a stripper.

“How’s the kitchen?” Mickey calls out, as he kicks away the cigarette butts scattering on the floor. The bedroom is much bigger comparing to the living room, allowing for a queen-sized bed and a wardrobe embedded deeply in the wall. For a guy like Welch, to have a hatstand in his house is positively a miracle, let alone a fucking wardrobe, and Mickey is well aware of its content. For he himself had one just like this back when he was still in the Milkovich house.

Gallagher shouts out loud from the kitchen. “Just stacks of dirty dishes. You?”

“I think I’ve got something here,” Mickey yells back, before getting a hold of the knob and pulling the closet door open. “Could be a home-made ammo…”

He trails off abruptly, eyes widened, torso motionless as that of an ice carving. “What the fuck?!”

Gallagher rushes in, still seemingly thrilled at the thought of finding their very first piece of reliable evidence, yet slows down when he notices an uncommonly dumbfounded Mickey Milkovich. “What’s wrong?”

Mickey lets out a breath he doesn’t know he’s been holding, and steps away to reveal the inside of the wardrobe. “I thought it was an ammo depot,” he says matter-of-factly, but there’s sheer disgust and loathing hidden under his tone, “but turns out it’s a picwall.”

Gallagher gasps once he has the full view of the so-called picwall. There seems to be more than twenty or thirty photos, at a minimum, pinned on the wooden board, all of different young girls. Most of them are brunettes, with baby blue eyes and broad smiles, too happy to know what should happen to them in the miserable future. It’s simply painful just to look at those beatific faces.

“Shit,” Gallagher hisses, reading the name tags under each photo. “Teresa, Nicole, Judy, Jacqueline… God, did he murder all these girls?”

“Highly likely,” picking off one of the photos, Mickey spots a small, red cross drawn in the left corner. It’s probably the Welch’s version of a death mark.

“Fuck, I feel sick,” Gallagher looks like he’s just about to puke. “How did he… Why hasn’t the FBI ever noticed this?”

Mickey forces out a wry smile. “Welch’s a hitman after all. He kills people all the time.”

“So his fucking killing career is like a cover for this serial murder?!”

“Looks like it,” Mickey feels even more fatigued now. He’s never dealt with a serial murder before, which sometimes giving him a false impression that Chicago might be a city of safety. But indubitably, he can’t be more wrong.

“It’s a good thing he’s dead.”

“Yep.”

“Do you think maybe one of the girls’ relatives or friends figured out what this monster did and killed him?”

“Reasonably, but like I said, we don’t ‘think’.” Mickey takes another look at the pictures, before realizing not all of the photos have that nauseating red cross, and picks that lucky survivor off the wall. She’s also a brunette, 16 at most, with a heart-shaped birthmark on her right temple.

“She’s beautiful,” Gallagher whispers affectionately.

“Krystal Hendricks,” Mickey reads out her name in a subdued voice, “She must have been his newest target.”

“You think she lives here?”

“Or why the fuck did he stay in town for a month?” Mickey grunts tiredly, missing his awful single bed all of a sudden. He wonders if he would fall asleep this time if he had the chance. “Call the department to seal off this fucking place. Let’s go back to find out where this Hendricks lives and whether or not she’s still alive.”

+++

“Hey, Mickey, check this out,” Gallagher passes a piece of yellowing newspaper to Mickey. In the lower left corner lays a tiny little picture, exposing a smiling brunette. “This one’s Jacqueline.”

“Missing, huh?” Mickey doesn’t even bother reading the article along with the picture. “When and where?”

“March the 24th, 1996, right here in Chicago.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow. “In Chicago? She got anything to do with Hendricks?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Gallagher sighs in frustration, “Just called her family. Jacqueline’s parents moved to Wisconsin after her missing. Never came back once.”

“Or so they said,” Mickey roughly rubs his eyes and groans, “Well, at least we now know that Welch did kill those girls then.” They’ve been searching for any news that includes those poor girls for hours since they came back to the office. It appears that Welch was admittedly a careful man, avoiding committing more than one murder in the same city, which might explain why FBI failed to put these missing cases together, getting the picture that it was, in fact, a serial murder. But fairly speaking, it’s only natural that the feds are this incompetent.

“Oh, did you get Hendricks’ address?” asks Mickey.

“Yep, and by the way, she’s alive.” Gallagher replies, “She’s willing to come here tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Why the fuck not today?” Mickey’s forehead creases into a frown, “Or we could just pay her a visit,” he stands up before his voice has even died away, bursting to get out of here. Gallagher rolls his eyes, grabbing Mickey by the arm.

“What?” Mickey can be a little choleric when he’s lack of sleep, which, he has to confess, is most of the time. And he sure as hell doesn’t like the way Gallagher looks at him. It’s like he’s a 5-year-old who cries because his parents won’t buy him a bicycle. 

“Mickey, it’s eight already.”

Mickey grimaces at that announcement. “What? You’re fucking with me.” 

But Gallagher’s right. It is, however much to Mickey’s disappointment, eight. The office is all but empty, only a few janitors working inaudibly in the aisles. Mickey just can’t believe it has taken them this long to go over all the jumbled information.

“Fine,” he raises his arms in surrender. “We’ll start early tomorrow.”

“Jesus, do you always have to push yourself this hard?” Gallagher complains, but doesn’t say no to Mickey’s suggestion, or rather, order. He just keeps staring at Mickey with possibly the upmost concentration, and asks before Mickey could snap, “Um, I don’t mean to intrude but, did you sleep, like at all, yesterday? Honestly, Mickey, You don’t look very well.”

“Oh so you do care about me,” Mickey murmurs in half-hearted ridicule, waving at Gallagher to shut him up. “Just go home. Back to your mommy or whatever.”

Gallagher shrugs. “No can do. She ran away when I was little.” He doesn’t sound bitter or sorrowful though, like she means nothing to him. Mickey guesses it’s probably true if he keeps telling himself that. “So you can’t sleep, huh?”

“Thanks for telling me that, Sherlock.” Mickey grumbles, lighting up a cigarette. He’d better reward himself with some tobacco since this conversation seems to be nowhere near end. 

Gallagher laughs shortly. “I’m just saying. Why don’t you take some diazepam?”

Mickey shakes his head. “Hell no man, I’ve quitted using for a long time.”

“Oh,” Gallagher goes on speaking after a moment’s silence, “You should come to my place then.”

“The fuck you’re talking about?” Mickey gapes at the redhead, completely astounded. No doubt he didn’t see this coming.

Gallagher flames up under Mickey’s incredulous gaze. “Well, I have this great hot tub in my apartment,” he explains hastily, “I mean, we still got shitloads of work to do tomorrow, right? I’d be damned if my partner couldn’t get a proper rest. You should try it, really, that thing is like a miracle. A ticket to heaven. I don’t exaggerate when I talk about my hot tub.”

He breaks off when Mickey doesn’t say anything, before gingerly adding, “Um, maybe a little?”

+++

Mickey’s not sure if it’s because of the ‘heavenly contentment’ the redhead assures him he’s gonna get, or the aggravating annoyance of his inability to sleep, or simply the entreaty glistening in Gallagher’s eyes, that he ends up here, standing awkwardly in the center of Gallagher’s living room.

This apartment Gallagher owns is actually quite big. Well furnitured, too, with a set of sofa that is way too cozy for a cop. The wallpaper is patterned with blue hyacinths and white babysbreath, which, Mickey should have guessed, is typical for a guy like Ian Gallagher. No wonder he made friends with Mandy. Bitch works in a florist and is crazy about this shit.

Gallagher comes out of his bedroom, carrying a pile of clothes in his arms, and beams at Mickey. “I find these pajamas I wore when I was a teenager.”

Mickey snorts and shoves Gallagher out of the way. Fuck Gallagher and fuck his overlong limbs. 

Gallagher grins behind him. “Guess it’s like a sleepover huh?”

Mickey tries very hard not to roll his eyes at that goofy comment. He strides towards the bathroom instead, too beat to make more chit chats with that fucking redhead, and is more than ready to try that legendary hot tub when he finally lays his eyes on that thing. It’s spotless, sizable, exquisite, and everything Mickey could ever fantasize about the paradise. He nearly moans just to imagine what he would feel lying there in the hot water.

“Not bad, is it?” Gallagher leans against the door, face suffused with that stupid smile.

“No,” Mickey mutters in awe, “Aren’t you from the South Side? How can you afford this shit? My family could barely pay the electricity bill.”

“Well, it’s actually Lip who bought this apartment He’s loaded, getting into a big company after graduation, so don’t worry about it.” Gallagher explains, and Mickey faintly remembers that’s the guy Mandy’s been fucking. Well, lucky bitch.

He wastes no more time, getting naked as quickly as a mortal could manage, and steps into the tub. Shit. Gallagher’s not exaggerating at all. The rolling water is blissfully soothing and the jets behind him are doing something Mickey can’t quite understand to him, blowing away the stiffness from his lower back. Mickey groans softly, closes his eyes and arches his back like a cat. He’s too comfortable to care if that posture would make him look gay.

“God bless your brother,” he sighs, sated and sleepy, resting along the edge.

Gallagher chuckles quietly. “Yeah, he’s the American Dream. We all knew he could make it someday. I just didn’t expect him to buy me an apartment.”

“And a miraculous hot tub,” Mickey doesn’t know why, but he’s suddenly in the mood for talking, regardless of his gathering drowsiness. “You guys close?”

“Very,” Gallagher admits, voice tender and airy. “We used to tell each other everything. He helped me when I told him I wanna get into West Point, even if he hated the idea.”

Mickey wonders what Mandy would have done if he ever thought about enlisting. “So if you are so eager for the army, why did you discharge?”

He fidgets a little as Gallagher refuses to respond for a while, worrying if he’s out of line. He’s even considering to apologize when the redhead mercifully opens his mouth again. “I became ill… while I was in the army.”

“Ill?” 

“I’ve got this bipolar disorder thing. A mental disease,” Gallagher explains, “They had to take me to hospital. I left shortly after, and went to New York to live with my brother.”

Mickey doesn’t even know what the fuck a bipolar disorder is. He's sure that's fucked up though, having to leave something you love behind, all because of a mess you are unable to control with. “Well, it’s better this way if you take another look at it,” he offers his comfort poorly. He’s bad at this kind of thing. “You could have been shot if you stayed in the army.”

“Yeah, right, like cop is the safest job in the world.” 

Mickey laughs. 

“Anyway,” Gallagher asks with a little bit hesitation. “Why'd you become a cop?”

Mickey bites the inside of his cheek, hard, before answering, “Craig, my foster father, was a cop. Just got retired last year.”

“He must be very proud of you.”

“I guess,” Mickey thinks of the glassy tears shining in the old man's eyes when Mickey told him his decision to be a police officer. That guy's always emotional like fuck. “It’s ironic, huh? My biological dad’s a felon and a monster, and I should turn into a fucking cop.”

“You miss him? I mean, that biological father of yours?”

Mickey swallows convulsively. This is not something he would feel comfortable to talk about with a colleague. Fuck, he doesn’t even talk about it with Mandy. But Gallagher’s been honest too, speaking out frankly of his mental disease, not caring whether Mickey would judge him or not. Maybe it’s what partners do after all, learning how to open out to each other.

“Yes, sometimes,” he murmurs, “he’s my dad, you know?” he looks at the wraiths of steam floating around him, the pale white haze mildly obscuring his view. “But I’m glad he’s dead.”

He thinks about the Milkovich house, the baseball bat hanging behind the door, the different weapons hidden in his wardrobe, the awful posters he had on his walls, and the screams Mandy made when Mom left and Terry got so drunk and pissed he tried to beat Mickey to death. And he thinks, yeah, he’s glad Terry’s dead. 

It's a shame he didn't know Gallagher when he was still living there though.


	3. Chapter 3

A loud smash of glass rouses Mickey from deep sleep. Sitting bolt upright, he looks around sluggishly, ready to shout out a ‘don’t fucking go near my kitchen, Mandy!’ before even properly coming around, when the door opens and a redhead pops out.

“Sorry,” the young man apologizes with a smile that looks horribly like a lost, little lamb. “I was just pouring you some OJ. Didn’t mean to wake you up.”

The way Mickey stares at him, however, is obviously making him a little flustered. “Or you prefer coffee?” he offers, licking his lips.

Mickey just keeps gawking at him, and after a whole minute mutters incredulously, “Gallagher?”

The disbelief in his voice has somehow amused the redhead and his partner begins to chuckle. “Jesus, you don’t remember? For real?”

Of course Mickey remembers. He’s suffering from insomnia, not amnesia thank you very much. It’s just hardly convincing that he would so easily fall asleep in his partner’s apartment, while having difficulty in sleeping on his own bed for so long. The irony is so authentic it’s not even funny. Fuck. Was he still in the tub when passing out anyway? He should get a hot tub like that. Even if he can’t possibly afford one.

He looks away from the refreshed redhead, and locks his eyes on the white sheet underneath him. “Did you, eh,” it’s 100 percent the silliest words that have ever come out of his mouth, “did you move me here? From the tub I mean? I did sack out in the tub, didn’t I?”

Mickey doesn’t even have to look to know there’s a bloody smirk flickering across Gallagher’s lips. “Yep, out like a light,” he stands at the door, arms folded, posing like he’s in a photo shooting in front of a bunch of vain people. “You’re not heavy though. So carrying you here is really just a piece of cake. No big deal.”

Mickey knows he ought to be pissed. He’s in no way a fucking piece of cake. But the more serious problem here, rather than getting pissed, is trying not to imagine himself being carried in those strong, military-trained arms of Gallagher’s. Shit. He needs someone to bang his head against the wall. “I owe you once, Gallagher.”

“You know you can just call me Ian, Mickey.”

Well yes, he could. But he’s not going to. There’re some rules he can’t break, even in his very own head.

“What’s the time now?”

“Just past seven, relax,” Gallagher turns around as Mickey gets out of bed and follows him into the kitchen. “Did you sleep well?”

“What do you think?” Mickey takes the orange juice Gallagher prepared for him. It’s been years since he last drank this kind of thing in the morning; it’s always strong, black coffee to keep him clear and sober. He feels like he’s gone back in time when he was still a teenager and Mandy would stand beside him, making him eggs and sausages.

Gallagher grins. “Just wanna check again. You did drool a lot last night.”

“Fuck you. I did not.”

“You so did. Oh, and you talked in sleep.”

Mickey snorts. “Is that so? What did I say then?”

Gallagher tilts his head slightly, eyes squinting as if he’s truly trying to remember those non-existed words. “Something like, thank you so much dear Gallagher, you are the best partner I’ve ever had.”

Mickey can’t roll his eyes harder.

He knocks back his juice and helps himself to a banana pancake after glazing it with tons of maple syrup. He can feel Gallagher’s eyes fixed on him in mute amazement, but is too busy appreciating his pancakes to retort. So he likes ‘em sweet. It’s not like he’s committing a crime.

“I thought Mandy was lying when she told me you liked snickers bars,” says Gallagher.

That bitch. Ah Mickey fucking hates her. Does she have to tell Gallagher her brother’s eating habit?

“It feels nice, doesn’t it?” Gallagher sits beside him, their shoulders practically bumping. “To have a proper breakfast?”

Mickey grunts defensively. “I have proper breakfasts every day.”

“Yeah, right, and you sleep like a baby.”

“Fuck off.”

“Seriously though,” Gallagher is now smiling at him again, so bright it’s almost unrealistic. “I could bring you food every morning if you want.”

If it weren’t for that sincere look on Gallagher’s face, Mickey would think he’s actually hearing things. He’s sure he must look hilarious right now, gaping at the redhead like the young man is some alien walking out of a space ship. He’s starting to realize he’s probably spent half of the time with Gallagher just watching his new partner. And it’s only their second day.

“We are not married, are we?” he finally asks. It’s the best line he could think of so shut up.

Gallagher laughs, softly. “No, I don’t think so.”

+++

Krystal Hendricks comes in early.

Mickey notices her presence the minute she walks into this chaotic, clamorous office. It’s hard not to, since she looks exactly like a square peg that falls in a round hole, big blue eyes shining with pure nervousness. She flashes a weak smile at Mickey as Mickey nods at her.

“You must be Detective Milkovich.” 

“Where’s your guardian?” Mickey raises an eyebrow. It’s rare these teenagers would come to a police department alone.

“She’s at work. My sister, I mean,” replies Hendricks in a low voice, “My parents died when I was little. But you’d only ask me a few questions, right? That’s what Detective Gallagher said.”

“Fine. I’ll make it quick.” Mickey walks her to a relatively quiet room, with blinds blocking the view. Gallagher follows afterwards, closing the door behind him, and offers her a cup of hot chocolate.

“Thanks,” the young brunette loosens up a little bit, biting her lips as she watches Mickey warily through her eyelashes, “So what’s it all about?”

Mickey shows her the picture of Welch. “Do you recognize him?”

Hendricks takes a long look at that pale face, and hesitantly shakes her head. “No. I don’t think I’ve ever met him before.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah… I mean, I could have seen him somewhere but I can’t really remember,” says Hendricks apologetically, “Why? What did he do? Should I know him?”

“Calm down, Krystal, it’s okay,” Gallagher reassures her in a way Mickey can never manage, smiling amiably like a fucking priest. “You don’t have to know him. In fact, it’s only better if you have never made acquaintance with him.”

“Why?”

“He’s an experienced stalker,” Mickey mutters.

Gallagher shoots him a disapproval glare when Hendricks widens her eyes in shock. “Do you mean he’s been stalking me?”

“He stalked you before, but no worries, he’s dead.” Mickey shrugs, yet apparently Hendricks is unable to find any comfort in his response, clutching the mug in her hands so hard her knuckles show white. Mickey sighs. “You’re safe now, Krystal, we’ll protect you.”

“But, but why did he… I mean, how could I… shit,” the poor girl hides her face behind her hands, too astounded to form an actual sentence. “Why did he pick me?”

Mickey has a very professional answer for this kind of questions. Sadly he doesn’t get any chance to say anything as Gallagher scowls at him again, while Hendricks’s phone shrieks frantically, ripping apart the awkward silence.

Hendricks physically jumps at the maddening ringing, and apologizes after glancing at the incoming call. “Sorry, it’s my sister,” she doesn’t answer it though, hanging up without a second thought. “I’ll call her later. I didn’t tell Amber I was coming here. She’s been acting oddly protective these days…”

Straightening up, Mickey interrupts her suddenly. “Amber? Your sister’s name’s Amber?”

Hendricks nods, puzzled.

“Where does she work?” 

Hendricks opens her mouth but nothing comes out, as if she’s not certain whether or not she should leak this particular piece of information. And Mickey understands, he does, he’s just bad at waiting. So he decides to supply the answer himself. “She works at a club. A club called Nightingale, doesn’t she?”

There’s no need for her to respond, for the startled look on her face gives out everything.

“Did she mention any of her clients to you?” asks Mickey.

Hendricks now looks as pale as a sheet. “No. We don’t talk about her work. She… she never likes it. But the payment’s good and we really need the money… Oh Jesus. Did this guy stalk her too? Did he harm her? Was he one of her clients?” 

God this girl is surely capable of asking a shitload of questions. And Mickey is definitely not comfortable enough to confront that virtuous face of hers. Luckily, he now has Gallagher to do the dirty job. “She’s fine, Krystal, she’s got nothing to do with this man.”

“Then how did you know her?” 

Fuck. Teenage girls and their hundreds and thousands of whys. “She’s involved with another case. A theft,” a white lie can do nobody harm. Mickey’s learnt this a long time ago. “Anyway. Thank you for your time, Krystal.”

Hendricks’s not convinced at all, Mickey can tell that from the suspicion hidden in her eyes. She’s reluctant to go as well, lingering around Mickey’s table, obviously fancying that she could pry something out of Mickey’s mouth. Mickey’s almost thinking about calling security when Gallagher appears like a knight in shiny armor, talking her out of the office before Mickey’s at the end of his rope.

“She’s one stubborn 16-year-old, I’ll give you that,” Mickey grumbles as Gallagher comes back.

“She’s just scared, and really cares about her sister,” instead of taking his own seat, Gallagher settles down on the stool next to Mickey, which kinda makes Mickey want to protest about this inhumanly close distance between them. He just can’t think of any appropriate way to bring up this subject. “So her sister’s Welch’s favourite then? God he’s such a sick bastard.”

With this, Mickey can’t agree more. “He found himself a substitute,” he can’t help but wondering who Welch was looking at when Amber gave him those lap dances. Did he gain satisfaction just from the intimacy between him and Amber? Is it the reason why he didn’t kill Krystal sooner? Shit. He’s spent too much time with that Krystal kid. “Maybe the substitute killed our serial killer to protect her sister. We need to go visit that strip club.”

The smile Gallagher gives him, is tender as breeze, nearly freeing Mickey of the stress blossoming from all this crap. “Yes, sir.”

+++

It’s just past noon, but the club is already packed like sardines, with shouting and laughing and screaming and cheap music that’s loud enough to wake the dead. Several girls are dancing on the stage, face stony while body swinging, drops of sweat streaming down their pale skin, reflecting the dark blue lights that fall upon the whole place.

“I’ll go fetch the manager,” Gallagher yells over the noise, “you can stay and talk to the customers.”

Normally Mickey isn’t fond of taking orders, but he’s willing to accept Gallagher’s suggestion this time as he’s in no mood to shove into that dreadful crowd. He picks a seat far away from the centered stage, asks for a beer, and watches the back of the redhead swallowed by the shaking lights.

A man sitting next to him gives him a thoughtful look, before asking, “Haven’t seen you before.”

Mickey thinks about the task Gallagher’s just assigned to him, and extricates himself from the urge to ignore that man. “Yeah, I’m still warming up to the idea of coming to a strip club during working hours.”

“Oh, looks like I’ve found myself a blue nose then,” laughs the man hoarsely, “Anyway, I’m Luke.”

“Mickey,” Mickey decides to cut to the chase, “Do you know a girl named Amber?”

“Everyone knows Amber. She’s a star here,” Luke orders a refill while looking around, and grimaces when he doesn’t find said star, “Nevertheless, she’s scarcely danced on stage these days. That Parker guy is one spooky dickhead.”

“Parker?”

“He’s been hounding her ever since he came here. Like she’s a chuck of meat for his exclusive or something. He even wants to buy her.”

Now that is some blast of information Mickey didn’t expect. “Buy her? Am I still in the Revolutionary War?”

Luke laughs again, even though Mickey doesn’t find any of his words amusing. “It happened before, dude, don’t panic. These girls basically belong to Taylor, I’m telling you, it’s like they’re her very own slaves. It’s a fucking strip club after all. Things can’t be done without a certain rule.”

“A rule that involves human trafficking?”

“Come on, these girls were well aware of what’s going to happen to them when they signed the contract,” Luke shrugs and downs another beer, “It’s a price you have to pay for, right?”

Mickey snorts. “You said it happened before?”

“Yep. A black girl, real beauty, I can’t remember her name though. There was this guy who desperately pined for her, and one day he just took her out of here and they’ve never made any appearance since then. At first people thought he murdered her or something. But well, you know,” he shoots Mickey a wink and Mickey absolutely doesn’t want to know what that means.

“And Taylor’s the manager here?”

“Yeah.”

That young woman doesn’t really fit the figure of a slaveholder, with that black eye that she claimed she got from her husband and everything. “Did she agree? To let that Parker take Amber I mean?”

Luke shakes his head. “It’s not that simple. She doesn’t even seem to be into that offer if you ask me. And plus, Amber’s always more obstinate than the other girls. Hard to control.” 

Mickey sits there silent, still digesting all these human trafficking things. He’s not those naive people who believe in the best of this fucking world—hell, he’s a cop. And the dirty business he saw when he was a kid was already way more than enough. Sometimes he figures this world is bound to be fucked.

“I could use another drink,” he grunts, and wonders where the fuck Gallagher has been.

“Let me buy you one,” Luke waves at the bartender before Mickey could decline. “You need to relax, man, too much weight on your shoulders.”

“That obvious, huh?” Mickey raises an eyebrow.

“Seriously, I can see your stress with only half of my eye. And you’re in a strip club,” Luke taps his fingers and grins at Mickey, “or you’d rather go somewhere else?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. He’s not stupid, plus that wink Luke threw at him was not really subtle, and if he’s being honest, it’s kinda nice to have someone hit on him. But he needs these invitations to happen in a right place and a right time. The last thing he wants is to let Gallagher witness a random guy planting his hands all over him. Truth is, he hasn’t exactly come out to his colleagues yet, and he certainly isn’t planning to.

“Do I look gay to you?” asks Mickey.

“Oh, please honey,” Luke smirks, “You make Justin Biber look straight.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey grumbled, standing up, but not as half pissed as he used to be. He was 12 when he first found out his true sexual orientation, watching porn with his brothers, while realizing he was in fact staring at a fat dick instead of the girl’s boobs. He was so scared he couldn’t talk to anybody, pretty sure he’s gonna wind up dead if Terry ever had a sniff of that. Even after he got adopted, he would ruthlessly bash anyone who dared to mention anything related to gay to him, although he knew crystal clear that neither Craig nor Mandy gave a shit about who he’s banging.

Hiding’s just become a settled practice for him.

He’s a little surprised, however, when Luke stops him, grabbing him by the arm. “Where are you going?”

Mickey considers about chopping off that hand for a minute, before remembering the badge he takes with him. “What part of my words can’t you understand? When I said fuck off, man, it means fuck the fuck off.”

“What’s going on here?” fortunately, Gallagher turns up at last, eyeing Luke with a face of inquiry, and steps in front of Mickey, as though his petulant partner needs his protection. 

It’s a gesture Mickey usually wouldn’t appreciate, but he decides not to say anything about it. After all, it would only be brutal if he turns down a kind offer, wouldn’t it?

“Never mind,” he sighs instead, ready to talk to Gallagher about that modern slavery, when Luke cuts in abruptly, grinning at Gallagher in a most distasteful way. “So this is why you won’t go out with me? He’s your boyfriend?”

“What?!” Mickey gapes at him, stupefied beyond words. 

Gallagher also seems quite shocked, turning around, eyes glued on Mickey’s face. “He asked you out?”

“Well, you shouldn’t be this surprised,” Luke laughs, clearly ignorant of the fact that Mickey’s about to beat the shit out of him. “Your boyfriend’s really cute.”

“He’s not… Fuck. You know what? Let’s just go,” Mickey’s not sure how long he could maintain this sanity of his. It’s a miracle, literally, that he would bridle his temper and voluntarily try to avoid a fight. Captain would weep for joy if he were here.

But apparently, God just forbids him from acting civil. “Hey, don’t go,” Luke shouts, “I don’t care if you want to bring your boyfriend. I mean, the more the merrier, right?”

Okay. That’s it. Mickey forces out a grim laugh, shrugs off his jacket, and punches right into Luke’s face. Luke screams, staggering aside against the bar counter before being pulled back again, face reddened because of the tightened collar. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he cries.

“I hate queers,” huffs Mickey. He’s stopped though, hands grabbed by Gallagher when he intends to perform a perfect head-butting. Shit. He forgets how strong this redhead is. “What?” he scowls at his partner.

Gallagher just shakes his head. “It’s not worth it, Mick. Don’t waste your time on this joker.”

“He insulted me.” And you.

“Please?” Gallagher pleads in a soft voice, watching him with those intense green eyes. It’s like he knows exactly which trick he uses could lure Mickey into a giddy place, and Mickey’s still not strong enough to stay cold under those puppy eyes.

“Fine,” he rumbles as releasing that poor Luke, and manages with his whole strength not to smile back when Gallagher gives him a warm, cheerful smile.


	4. Chapter 4

“So did you find Taylor? The manager?” asks Mickey as he follows Gallagher out of the dark spot, elbowing his way through the dancing crowd. He doesn’t know where they are going, but judging from the direction, Gallagher’s taking him to the staff room.

“Nope, it’s her day off. Amber’s here though,” replies Gallagher, “She seems nice.”

“Yeah, I seem nice too, and I’m not a fucking major suspect,” Mickey snorts, “The manager’s been plotting to sell her to Welch. Just so you know.”

“What?!” Gallagher widens his eyes, face vaguely reminding Mickey of a stunned Bambi, only considerably cuter. And no, Mickey didn’t watch that stupid cartoon. He just caught a glimpse of the screen when Mandy was watching it. “That leaves her a pretty strong motive then.”

“Two. Don’t forget about her sister,” Mickey points out, “And who the well would look out for a stripper? They take tips, not killing people.”

He trails off as Gallagher hushes him, indicating to a young woman standing in front of a staff room. She’s also a brunette, wearing a makeup that’s heavy enough to conceal her real features, green eyes idly watching Mickey and Gallagher striding towards her.

“Amber Hendricks?” Mickey asks.

Smiling lazily, Amber lights a cigarette, inhales deeply, and blows a perfect smoke ring. She has really long, slender fingers, the pale skin blurred in the flash of sparks. “Yes, detective,” she steps aside, allowing Mickey to enter that little breathing space of hers. It’s an awfully crowded place, cramped, with costumes and magazines and makeups piling up everywhere, a decrepit dresser that seems to be handed all the way down from Victorian squeezed in the lower right corner, while a boho-chic blanket hanging on the stained wall.

“Nice blanket,” says Gallagher.

“Thanks, my sister bought it from a flea market.” Amber leans against the doorframe, taking a drag before asking, “So? You said you guys wanna talk to me about something?”

“Yep. Do you know Tommy Parker?” Mickey fishes the photo out of his pocket and shows it to Amber. “It’s this guy, right?”

Amber nods distantly. “He’s a regular. I heard he’s dead, no?”

“Just wondering how you are handling it. You must have liked him a lot. He spent a large amount of money on you, didn’t he?” Mickey watches Amber inhaling again, her eyes cold as charity.

Amber shrugs. “It’s not like he’s my only source of revenue. I’ve got other customers.”

“So you don’t like him? Even though he treated you well?”

“Treated me well?” Amber laughs dryly, “More like he’s a tyrant. Parker’s not a man of good disposition.”

“What did he do?”

“All kinds of things,” Amber sneers, “At first he just couldn’t take his hands off me. Then he would fall into rage every time someone tried to approach me. Called me names. Even tried to beat me once when I talked to a new bartender. Taylor had to call bouncers to help.”

“Sounds terrible,” Mickey exchanges a look with Gallagher before saying, “Taylor never told us he treated you like this.”

“Taylor’s all about money. She wouldn’t care whether or not we get killed as long as she has her own fair share.” Amber takes her last drag and shoves the cigarette butt against the door. “I don’t blame her though. It’s simply how you run a business, right?”

“So you wouldn’t blame her even if she plans to sell you to Parker?”

“Planned,” Amber doesn’t seem surprised at all. The look on her face, as a matter of fact, could only be described as nonchalance, as if they are talking about someone else. “He’s dead now, isn’t he?”

Eyes flashing direct into Amber’s, Mickey gives her a faint smile. “That makes you a beneficiary, huh?”

Amber straightens up, her whole body lapsing into an uncommon solemnity. “What are you implying?” she asks callously, “That I killed him? Come on, I’m not that stupid.”

“We’re just looking into every possibility,” answers Gallagher, “We are not accusing you of anything, Amber.”

“Exactly. That’s how police run their businesses, after all, and I’m sure you’ll understand,” Mickey ignores the warning look Gallagher delivers to him, “Where were you between 12am to 2am yesterday?”

“Home. Sleeping,” biting the inside of her cheek, Amber replies, “Do you need a witness? My sister can prove that.”

“To tell you the truth, Amber, your sister’s testimony is of no avail,” says Mickey, “But thanks anyway. We’ll keep you informed.”

“I didn’t kill him for fuck’s sake!” Amber shouts as Mickey and Gallagher turn around, “My sister still needs me. I won’t commit such horrible crimes and leave her on her own!”

+++

“So, what do you think? She’s telling the truth?” Gallagher asks after they finally get out of the club, both taking a deep breath of fresh air and sighing in great contentment. “She sounds quite sincere.”

“Please, don’t make me give you a lecture,” Mickey raises an eyebrow. He has no idea why Gallagher would act so credulous, always seeing the goodness in people, like a fucking angel or something. 

He looks like an angel, that’s for sure.

Shit.

“Sandra sends me a message,” Fortunately, Gallagher digs out his phone and breaks off that disgraceful train of thoughts of Mickey’s. And it takes him a whole minute to realize that this Sandra is a girl from the Investigative Services. How could Gallagher get to know so many people in only two fucking days? “They found some scratches on the doorframe of the apartment Welch rented. ME confirmed that Welch got a few bits of wood remaining in his fingernails.”

“So he was standing at the door when he was attacked,” Mickey’s eyes immediately light up. “Someone stabbed him after he answered the door; he struggled, clutching at the doorframe hard enough to leave some scratches on it, but still died.”

“And then the killer dumped his body near that highway,” Gallagher continues as he walks to their car, waiting for Mickey to take out the keys. “Welch should have known the killer. People like him prefer a premeditated schedule… Oh, Mickey. Can I drive this time?”

Mickey is impressed at how promptly and precipitously Gallagher can change a topic, while managing to maintain that shit eating grin, so sure of himself that he’ll win Mickey’s consent. But why in the hell would Mickey give him the green light to drive that baby girl? No one, except for Mickey, would have that honor.

He tosses the key to Gallagher anyway.

“Be careful with my car,” Mickey grunts, settling into the passenger seat. It’s an extremely dangerous signal, he knows it crystal clear, that he would indulge Gallagher like this, allowing him to step into his personal space and take control. And it’s different from sex. It’s different from waving away the power in bed, having people fuck him into the mattress. Somehow it feels more intimate than that, and Mickey’s not sure how he’s gonna deal with it since he’s never had this kind of feeling before. 

He’s not even sure whether he would acknowledge of this feeling or not.

Gallagher gets in and beams at Mickey, the delight in his eyes so earnest Mickey can almost feel a butterfly fluttering in his stomach. “Can I also pick the music?”

“Hell no.”

Welch’s apartment has already been sealed off. When they arrive, a petite blonde is just coming out, carrying a laptop in her hands and staring fixedly at the screen without noticing the two detectives. She’s one inch away from crashing into the wall when Mickey calls out her name and stops her.

“Hey Sandra! What’s that?” asks Mickey.

“Oh, Mickey, Ian, hey,” Sandra turns around, finally getting out of her own head and showing them what she was just reading. “It’s an encrypted document. Basically, Welch wrote his dairies on it. Whoever killed Welch didn’t do a very good job clearing up in the aftermath.”

“Anything important?” there’s no way Mickey would personally read those diaries. He can barely read a fucking Playboy.

“Well, besides all the creepy serial-killer nonsense, he did mention, in his last dairy, that he was going to meet someone here in his apartment,” says Sandra with a disgusted face, “A girl he’d kept seeing during his stay in Chicago. Any idea who that is?”

“Amber Hendricks,” racing through that particular passage Sandra talked about, Mickey lets out a wintry snort. “And she told us she was sleeping at home.”

“Maybe she didn’t really come here,” Gallagher refutes, “It’s only an appointment. Means nothing.”

“Is he always like this?” asks Sandra.

Mickey laughs. “You tell me. I thought you guys were friends.”

“Shut up,” Gallagher blushes, which makes that butterfly in Mickey’s stomach start to flutter again. He’s only able to look away before feeling Sandra’s eyes narrowly upon him, obviously intrigued.

“Shit,” Mickey cursed under his breath, desperate to find something else to talk about in order to break the current silence as an officer run towards them, panting slightly. Mickey breathes a sigh of relief stealthily and asks, “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a hobo outside, saying he saw something suspicious that night Welch died,” answers the officer.

“And what is that?”

“Eh, he said he saw a white Camery that he couldn’t recognize parked in the driveway when he came back around 1pm. He thought it was quite odd cause there aren’t many people living in this building and he knows every single car that comes in and out of here,” the officer bends his head to read his notes like a fucking elementary student, as if he’s afraid Mickey would chop his head off if he transmits something wrong. 

“Did he get a view of the license then?”

“Not whole of it. It was dark and he believed it was dangerous to get out of his, well, cardboard.” 

“Fair enough,” Mickey shrugs. “What else?”

“He saw a man drag something out of the building later and stuff it into the trunk of that Camery.”

“Wait,” Mickey’s a little confused. “A man? He saw a man, not a woman?”

“Eh… a man, yeah. About 5’9, white, with a crew cut,” the officer checks his notes again and asks, “Should we put an APB on the car along with this man?”

“Yeah… Yeah, go ahead,” Mickey bites his bottom lip and turns to Gallagher. “So there may be an accomplice.”

“Or it could be one of his enemies. He’s a hitman after all.”

“No, no he wouldn’t be that reckless.” Mickey shakes his head, thumb rubbing the corner of his mouth. “He wouldn’t even open the door if he didn’t know that killer. Bring Amber in. And her sister.”

Gallagher rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything to protest.

+++

Mickey hates late afternoons. It’s the most unproductive period of time, and he can hardly stay awake if he hasn’t fed with a gallon of black coffee. What’s even worse is that the coffee supplied in Chicago PD is probably the worst in the whole fucking universe, and Mickey doesn’t feel like wasting his energy walking around the corner to buy himself a Starbucks.

Or he doesn’t need to; he’s got Gallagher now.

“Two triple espressos,” Gallagher plants two cups on the table, a tender smile touching his lips. “As you asked.”

“Thanks,” Mickey raises his head from the stack of paperwork in front of him. “Have Hendricks sisters arrived yet?”

“Just came in a minute ago,” replies Gallagher softly, “I had them in Room Alpha. Do you want them separated?”

“Nah, that won’t be necessary,” standing up, Mickey takes his coffee and walks to the interrogation room, Gallagher following closely behind. The room was rather dark, a dirty drop light hanging above the cold, metal desk, pallid light dancing over the centered spot, making the two figures sitting there faintly indiscernible. 

They both nearly jump when Mickey pushes the door open and gets in. Krystal looks pretty scared, staring at Mickey without batting an eyelash, while Amber keeps her eyes riveted on the left wall, lips pinching tightly together.

“Okay, let’s get this over with,” Mickey takes a seat opposite to them, and spreads out all the files he gets on the Welch case. “Krystal, Amber, meet Isaac Welch.”

“Wow, wait,” Amber widens her eyes and asks, “How do you know my sister’s name? And isn’t this Tommy Parker? ”

Mickey sighs with a false grin on his face. “How many guys go to a strip club with their true names? Please, Amber, you know how this works,” he then turns to a timid Krystal, “You didn’t tell your sister?”

“What’s the point? She’s only going to worry herself sick,” Krystal whispers.

“Well actually no, I believe she’s well aware of what had happened before,” Mickey digs out Welch’s last dairy they printed out and hands it to Amber. “And I think she had an appointment with this client of hers.”

“Appointment? You were going to meet with him?” shocked, Krystal yells at her sister.

“Jesus, no! I would never meet my clients in private,” Amber’s face turns white after reading that piece of paper though, lips trembling a little while retorting, “He didn’t mention my name. This person he was going to meet, whoever it is, is not me.”

“Come on, Amber,” says Mickey, “I doubt it could get any more obvious. Or maybe we could give Krystal a try? See if she could recognize this girl Welch described in his dairy.”

“No!” 

“All right,” Mickey shrugs. “You don’t have to be this protective, Amber. Your sister’s a big girl now, and she’s quite capable of protecting herself. But I get it; I do. I would literally cut him into pieces and take his body parts to feed the stray dogs if I were you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Really, Amber?” Mickey shakes his head in disbelief, and lays out several pieces of paper under her nose. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Shit,” Amber hisses as she reads rapidly, teeth biting her bottom lip so hard Mickey can see a trace of blood oozing out. But instead of a breakdown Mickey’s been expecting, she becomes unnaturally collected after she gets through all those diaries, or rather, fantasies Welch once had, depicting every detail of what he’s gonna do to Krystal if he’d finally had her. “Did Parker, no, did Welch write these?”

Mickey watches her skimming over the passages again with a poker face. “You are the one that danced with him every Friday and had a secret meeting with him. You tell me.”

To Mickey’s surprise, Amber raises her head, meets his eyes and smiles, slowly. “Please, detective, we both know there’s no solid proof that says it’s me who had an appointment with this Welch. And even if I had been there, which I wasn’t, how could it possibly mean I killed him?”

She pauses as though she expects Mickey to say something, and when Mickey doesn’t, she continues tonelessly. “Arrest me if you have any evidence that could relate me to this murder. Or leave me and my sister the fuck alone.”

Mickey sits still as stone when the two Hendricks sisters walk out of the interrogation room, only moving his eyes as Gallagher gets in and sits next to him, worried. “You okay?”

Mickey laughs shortly. “Thanks, Gallagher, but I’m not gonna cry.”

“She’s right, you know,” says Gallagher quietly, “We can’t just accuse her of murder without any proof.”

“Yeah, I know,” drinking up his coffee, Mickey mumbles, “I just… Never mind. So now the only evidence we possess is that fucking white Camery and that man.”

“I’m working on the male friends and relatives of Hendricks’. Nothing comes out so far.”

“How about the car?” 

“A few people called. All smoke and mirrors.”

“Fuck,” Mickey rubs his eyes tiredly before murmuring, “I know it’s her, Gallagher. I know she killed Welch. I just know it.”

Gallagher smiles at him soothingly. “Don’t push yourself, Mick. You need to rest,” he stands up abruptly, and grabs Mickey’s arm, the heat radiates from his palm seeping into Mickey’s skin, like a sunbath Mandy’s always been babbling about. “Come on,” he says, “Let me drive you home.”

+++

It’s been almost six month since Mickey brought a guy home. He wasn’t planning to of course, but it’s practically impossible to refuse a puppy-looked Gallagher and Mickey figures, why not? At least Gallagher ordered a meat feast pizza for them.

“So this is where you live, huh?” Gallagher drops into the crappy couch Mickey bought from a flea market and catches the beer Mickey throws at him. “Cozy.”

“More like small and shabby,” Mickey snorts, “Shame I don’t have a millionaire brother.”

“You can have my tub if you want.”

“No, thanks,” Mickey picks up a slice of pizza and shovels it into his mouth, sitting down at the dining table not far away from the couch. “I’ll just sell it and use the money to buy groceries.”

He fishes out the files he took from the office, placing them on the table before Gallagher notices and asks, “What are you looking at?”

“Pictures of Welch’s apartment,” answers Mickey, “Maybe there’s something I missed.”

Gallagher sighs heavily, walking towards Mickey and putting away those photos, bringing Mickey to glare at him angrily. He’s not afraid of a furious Mickey though, simply staring back with a face of angel and grinning like a demon. “You can’t rush evidence, Mick. And you haven’t had a decent sleep until yesterday and I bet you’re still exhausted as hell. So just relax, will you? We’ll find that car and that man tomorrow. I promise.”

Mickey knows Gallagher’s right. He’s just so used to working overtime and no one else has ever told him to fucking relax. “It’s been two days,” he says.

“Well, even Sherlock can’t solve a case just overnight, can he?” Gallagher offers and Mickey has to admit it’s a pretty strong argument. “I’ve been like this before, Mickey, only more excited and unable to rest at all. I’m telling you, it’s not a pleasant experience.”

Mickey frowns. “That your mental disease?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not mental.”

“No one says you are,” Gallagher smiles, and picks up another slice of pizza. “Pizza?”

Biting his bottom lip, Mickey nods after a whole minute of hesitance and takes the pizza. It doesn’t taste very nice once getting cold, but Mickey decides to let it go and not complain about it. He’s a little uneasy though, since Gallagher’s looking at him without even blinking, so unvarnished that Mickey has an odd feeling that something’s going to happen. 

And he’s right.

Gallagher suddenly open his mouth. “You’ve got…” he trails off, as if he gathers it’s better to be done than said, and steps forward, tenderly thumbing Mickey’s bottom lip clean. And Mickey loses the ability to move all at once, sitting there motionlessly, watching those green eyes of Gallagher’s getting closer and closer, until Mickey’s had a clear view of himself reflected in Gallagher’s pupil and he thinks wow. How small he is.

And how sweet Gallagher’s lips taste.

It’s a strange and novel feeling for Mickey as he’s rarely kissed people before. He’s never enjoyed being kissed actually, and he always thinks he would not get aroused by kissing, till now. He can feel Gallagher licking and biting his lips like he’s a fucking candy, and he’s never been this turned on he wants to shove Gallagher to the ground and ride this damn redhead all night long.

But he’s not 17 anymore. He’s a fucking adult who’s supposed to be able to control himself, so he pushes Gallagher away, panting and trembling a little.

And he needs to say something. So he asks, “Did Mandy tell you?”

Gallagher lets out a husky laugh, eyes not leaving Mickey’s face for a spilt second as saying, “That you’re gay? Yeah, she told me.”

Mickey’s so going to kill his sister. “Fucking bitch.”

“She’s not that bad,” Gallagher whispers, licking his lips purposely, and Mickey’s immediately on full alert and warns, “Don’t you fucking do it again.”

“What?” Gallagher blinks blankly before realizing what Mickey’s talking about. “Oh, right.”

“No, seriously, don’t kiss me.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He’s movement, however, doesn’t seem to show that he understands even a little bit of Mickey’s warning, as he steps forward again, lowers his head, and kisses Mickey for the second time.

They are not separated from each other until they’re both out of breath this time, and Mickey’s lips are swollen to a point of pain and he’s sure he tastes blood, only clueless about who that belongs to. It doesn’t stop him though, from pulling Gallagher closer and kissing him hard on the lips.


	5. Chapter 5

The first word comes into Mickey’s mind when he wakes up the next morning is, Shit.

Throughout the whole 27 years of Mickey’s life, a lot of fucked up incidents happened and he always couldn’t decide which one should be titled as the worst. Now, however, he can proudly announce that he’s made the final choice of the most embarrassing moment that has ever occurred in his fucking life: 

The morning after having sex with Ian Gallagher, hands down.

It’s not like Mickey’s never experienced a morning after before, though he did prefer to kick people out as soon as they’re done fucking. He’s just not used to those cuddling or morning kisses or the messy short hair stinging his bare shoulder, and he’s sure as hell not ready to see a smiling freckled face steeped in the mellow sunshine, sleepy yet happy, making Mickey want to kiss him all over again.

But that’s exactly something he shouldn’t do. He’s already made a huge mistake by fucking his partner without giving it a second thought; what he at least can do now, is try to regain that descending self-control, and pretend that nothing happened last night.

And it’s gonna be hard. Very hard.Especially when Gallagher’s looking at him with those beautiful green eyes.

Fuck. Did he just furtively describe a man’s eyes as beautiful?

“Morning, Mick,” Gallagher smiles at him, utterly oblivious of Mickey’s internal struggle.

Instead of replying, Mickey just gets out of the warm bed (and away from Gallagher), and drags on a pair of jeans that’s dumped on the floor. They are considerably longer which means they belong to the redhead, but Mickey’s too eager to leave this room to bring himself to care. He can still feel Gallagher’s eyes fixed on his back though, the intensity sending a shiver down his spine, the same as last night when Gallagher held him tight and whispered something stupid into his ears and he came, so hard he blacked out after that for a whole fucking minute. 

Shit. He really shouldn’t think about those things. Rubbing his face drowsily and deliberately avoiding meeting Gallagher’s eyes, Mickey turns around and strides out of the bedroom. He needs coffee. Like, right the fucking now.

Unfortunately, coffee’s far from ready when Gallagher comes out, wearing nothing but a pair of boxes that looks suspiciously like one of Mickey’s. There are several hickeys lying around his pale chest, with a bite mark that’s still bleeding on his shoulder, which immediately brings those disgraceful memories back to Mickey.

And he nearly blushes at said memories. Nearly.

“Do you have any OJ here?” Gallagher asks casually, as though he’s spent hundreds and thousands of mornings with Mickey here in this apartment, looking so comfortable it’s almost convincing if they should claim to be a couple. And when Mickey doesn’t answer, he turns around and raises an eyebrow, saying, “What, you’re not talking to me anymore?”

As if that’s even possible. Mickey sighs and finally looks away from the stained coffee pot, opening the refrigerator to fumble out a bottle of milk. “I’ve only got this.”

“Thanks,” taking over the bottle, Gallagher asks, “Is it overdue?”

“Shut up and drink it.”

“Yes sir,” Gallagher grins at him, the smug face so annoying yet irresistible in a way Mickey couldn’t explain. He has to avert his gaze or he’s afraid he’ll blurt out something he would definitely regret later, and goes back to the stare down competition with his boiling coffee.

Sadly Gallagher’s never going to let him off so easily. “So, we had sex then.”

“Yep.”

“I wasn’t planning on doing it though.”

Mickey snorts. “Yeah, I know. Don’t worry about it.”

It’s simply a conclusive proof of his lack of self-control.

“So I’m guessing you’re not in the mood to talk about it then, are you?” 

Chewing his lower lip, Mickey darts a glance at Gallagher and quickly back to where he was looking at. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he replies as nonchalantly as he can manage, “We had sex, which we shouldn’t have, so we’ll both just pretend that nothing actually happened and life goes on. There. Done.”

“Nothing happened?” Gallagher’s eyebrows shoot up like he’s just heard a most ridiculous joke. “Even though my shoulder’s still bleeding because of your bite?”

Mickey throws a napkin at him. “Clean it up.”

“And my back’s still sore. Do you have any idea how many scratches you’ve left on my back?”

Mickey rolls his eyes and suddenly has the compelling urge to punch the redhead right in his arrogant face. “What are you expecting then?” he laughs dryly, “that we’re girlfriends and boyfriends here? It was only a one night stand. So just drink your fucking milk and get your ass out of my apartment.”

The thing is, he can’t think properly with Gallagher around. Those big hands grasping the glass would remind him of the tender stroking along his backside, the lips pinching together would remind him of the kisses pressed against every inch of his exposed skin, and even the heady aroma of coffee would remind him of Gallagher’s scent from last night, draping over him like a warm blanket.

And he can’t just persuade himself to believe that it’s merely a one night stand. He’s not stupid; he’s just not 17 anymore when people are entitled to be run over with the absurd passion, falling for the delusion that it’s all gonna end well. No. He’s 27 now.

“Fine,” Gallagher shrugs and downs his glass of milk, “If it’s what you want.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Thankfully, their phones start to ring before it gets too awkward and Mickey has no choice but to bolt out of his own apartment to escape from those inexplicit gazes Gallagher shoots at him.

+++

The phone call, as it turns out, is from the department, ordering Mickey to get there as soon as possible. It’s hardly rare for him to come to work early, but this time is different: some guy has walked into his office and turned himself in as the murderer of the Welch case.

“You must be kidding me,” Mickey mutters outside the interrogation room, watching the murderer (or so he claimed) neatly sitting at the table with a blank stare. He’s pretty built, with a height of approximately 5’9 and a haircut of military style, which fits exactly every description the hobo gave to the police. 

“What’s his name?” Gallagher asks the officer that led the guy in before.

“Greg Crawford. The car he owns is also a white Camery.”

“Get that hobo guy here to identify him,” scratching the back of his neck irritably, Mickey takes a deep breath and pushes the door open. Crawford instantly turns to him, the look on his face still surprisingly detached as though he’s not in an interrogation room, facing a charge of first murder. Mickey takes a seat opposite him, Gallagher standing upright nearby in the corner.

“Greg Crawford, right?” asks Mickey as he flips open his notebook.“You said you killed Isaac Welch?”

“I thought his name was Tommy Parker but yeah, I killed him,” Crawford replies in a low voice, “It was an accident though.”

“An Accident that you not only cleaned the crime scene but also carried his body to the highway and dumped it there?” Mickey laughs, “Sorry, man, I don’t think so.”

“I’m telling you the truth!” Crawford exclaims, “I was just going to argue with him about something… I would have never imagined that things would take such a sudden turn and I couldn’t even remember how it all began! I was just so scared and I thought of those murders in TV and I thought, why not, you know? To dump his body and maybe I could walk out free.”

Mickey gives out an unconvinced snort. “So why are you here now?”

“I feel guilty, and terrible when I heard about the Camery the other day,” Crawford confesses, “I knew I should turn myself in.”

“Okay,” Mickey sighs tiredly, “Let’s say, if what you said is true, then what is it that you were going to argue with him about in the first place? How do you know him?”

Crawford hesitates for a while, gazing flickering from Mickey to Gallagher back and forth before saying, “Well it was about my wife… I thought she was having an affair with him.”

“Your wife…Fine. What’s her name?”

“Taylor. Taylor Crawford. She works in this club where Parker, oh ,Welch went all the time and I’m kind of an androcentric guy and I got really pissed, so I thought I should pay him a visit… Well, you know how it went from there.”

He lets out a short laugh, as if he’s just told a joke rather than confessing a murder in front of two detectives, but Mickey’s too shocked to warn him of the erroneous attitude. He turns to Gallagher instead, and realizes the redhead’s also staring at him with a completely confused and astounded face.

Rubbing the corner of his mouth, Mickey turns back to the still collected suspect and asks, “Is this club where your wife worked called Nightingale?”

Crawford nods casually. “Yep. She’s the manager there.”

But this can’t be it. Mickey frowns, deeply, and attempts to remember the information he knows about that Taylor. She’s a manager of a strip club who appears to be gentle and nice while secretly working on the business of human trafficking, all badass stuff, except she’s also probably suffering from domestic violence if those black eyes she got were really from this Greg Crawford. And if you really think about it, despite of Mickey’s reluctance of admitting it, it’s possible that Crawford would extend his propensity of violence to a whole new level.

“So what you mean, if I’m taking it right,” says Mickey, “Is that you got jealous after finding out your wife’s always hanging out with Welch, so you went to his apartment to confront him, but things got out of hand and you accidentally killed him.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“You told your wife yet?”

“Oh no, I don’t want this to get more complicated. I figured I should tell you guys first.”

Mickey taps the table with his pen and gazes into Crawford’s face with full skepticism. It’s not that he doesn’t want this case to end; hell, he’s the one that’s been aspired after every piece of evidence no matter how trivial it seems. He’s just not ready to place his trust in that man sitting opposite him, let along the murder story he smoothly narrated like a well-written script.

But he’s not gonna question it out loud, or Gallagher’s only going to accuse him of overly paranoid. After all, who doesn’t like a closed case?

“Okay,” Mickey speaks after contemplating for a while, “Now tell me every detail of this accident of yours.”

+++

“It’s a nicely-compiled story, I’ll give you that,” Mickey watches the back of Crawford receding into the darkened lamplight before letting out a toneless sniff. “How convenient.”

Gallagher shakes his head in disbelief, “What do you want then? Isn’t it good enough to have a suspect in custody? He’s the best thing we’ve got now.”

“It’s just too coincidental, you know?” Mickey bites his lips again, and tastes the blood remaining there from last night. He can feel Gallagher’s eyes lingering on his lips as well, the heat almost making him shudder. Fuck. Why is Gallagher looking at him like that? This is a fucking working place for fuck’s sake. “Look, we were short of evidence at first and were practically walking into a dead end when he suddenly popped up out of nowhere and solved everything. Call me paranoid or whatever you want, I just think it’s more like a layout.”

“Relax, Mickey, Jesus, can you just relax for a fucking second?” Gallagher rolls his eyes and grabs Mickey by the shoulder. His hands are so insanely big and warm and firm and Mickey can’t help but recalling of all the things these hands are capable of doing. Shit. Now he’s acting like a horny teenager who keeps pining for the only guy that’s willing to fuck him.

He manages to shake off Gallagher’s hand and take a step back without turning a hair, looking everywhere but Gallagher’s face. “I’m just saying, this whole cheating thing is just his side of story, for all I know he could be the one who’s indeed cheating.”

“With Amber Hendricks, you mean?”

“Exactly,” Mickey shrugs, “Maybe Amber asked him to kill Welch. With his confession, we could only charge him of negligent homicide, and if he hires some nice suit to defend for him, how many years do you think he would get? 10 at most? Don’t forget what kind of man Isaac Welch was.”

Gallagher purses his lips and thinks about Mickey’s words for a moment before sighing with a faint smile around the corner of his mouth. “Mickey, this is real life. Murders don’t get to have so many twisted plots like those in Criminal Minds or something.”

“Fuck you, Criminal Minds is epic,” Mickey pouts a little without realizing it and when he notices the grin growing wide on Gallagher’s face it’s already too late. Damn it. He feels like he’s flirting with his boyfriend. “Anyway, we need to inform his wife of this. See if she knows anything about it.”

“Okay,” Gallagher grabs his coat and follows Mickey out of the office, “But first, can I buy you lunch?”

Mickey nearly loses his balance at Gallagher’s words. What the fuck is this redhead trying to do? “I thought I told you we were not in some fucking relationship.”

“I know,” Gallagher smiles at him sheepishly, “It’s just lunch. I mean, we are partners after all, and partners are supposed to be looking out for each other, aren’t they? I hate to mention it, but you didn’t have much for breakfast this morning.”

That, however, is true. And Mickey’s hardly in the position to turn down an offer of hotdogs and coffee. “Fine,” he finally compromises, grunting and walking fast towards the parking lot.

“How about the dinner then? Can I also buy you dinner?”

Fuck dinner, Mickey just wants to buy a fucking tart and shoves it against Gallagher’s face. “Will you please shut up? Don’t you remember those rules I told you about when we first met?”

“Oh, right,” Gallagher smirks, “So I have to seal my mouth closed. How do you want to do it? With a kiss?”

“What?” Mickey raises an eyebrow, unable to believe what he just heard. 

“Eh, that song, sealed with a kiss?” Gallagher explains with an innocent face, “Sung by Brian Hyland?”

Oh Jesus Christ. He’s got a partner who listens to folk songs from fucking 60s and should expect people to know what he’s talking about. But it’s not even the worst part. The worst part is, Mickey Milkovich’s actually falling for this stupid man.

He’s so doomed.

And he has to say something before this sneaky bastard could tell something’s wrong with him. So he mutters grumpily as he gets into the car. “I wanna shoot you in your face, that’s what I want.” 

Regrettably, Gallagher just flashes him a broad smile which probably indicates that he’s already seen through Mickey’s little game for a long time.

+++

The Nightingale is crowded as always when Mickey gets there with Gallagher after finishing the hotdog Gallagher bought him (which, by the way, is fucking amazing). The light is terribly dazzling and the madly loud music is driving Mickey crazy, so he simply leads the way and intrudes into the dancing crowd instead of having to yell at the redhead, only stopped by a guy with a familiar look soon after.

“Hey!” the guy shouts at him, “It’s you. Mickey, right?”

It takes Mickey two minutes to recollect who this guy is. “Luke?” he’s a little surprised. It’s the man he talked to the last time he came here to investigate. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think?” Luke laughs, “Dude, my nose’s still hurt thanks to your punch the other day.”

“Yeah, whatever, you deserved it,” Mickey snorts and is about to leave when Luke says, “If you’re looking for Amber, she’s not here right now. Outside taking a break or something.”

“Thanks, but I’m here for the manager Taylor.”

“Oh you’ll also have to wait then, she’s out with Amber, talking about some stuff I guess,” Luke takes a brief look at Gallagher and then grins at Mickey, “I see. You’ve got a seriously strange hobby of taking your boyfriend to the strip club.”

Mickey wants to bash this joker so hard his mom won’t recognize him afterwards. But again, he’s a detective, not a neighborhood thug who can do whatever he wants to do. “I’m not going to say it for the third time,” he warns, enunciating each word. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Luke just gives him a funny look that basically says ‘yeah, right’. “So he’s a friend?”

“Sort of,” Mickey refuses to check the expression on Gallagher’s face and fixes his gaze on a strip girl dancing nearby.

“Then you’re still available,” says Luke elatedly, “Don’t tell me you’re not gay. I’m not buying it. Call me if you ever change your mind,” he fishes out a business card from the pocket of his wrinkled jacket and gives it to Mickey.

Mickey doesn’t take it though. Fairly speaking, Luke is quite attractive, with his dirty blond hair and baby blue eyes and everything, but Mickey just isn’t interested. He can feel Gallagher’s body firmly pressing against his, the thudding in his chest audible even in such a raucous place. “You wanna go out with me? After I punched you in your face?”

“Well, it happens all the time so I really don’t care,” Luke shrugs, “Besides, it’s totally worth it if you agree to go on a date with me.”

He seems sincere; Mickey can tell that from the sparkling in his eyes. And he knows he ought to say yes if he truly wants to get over with this whole Ian Gallagher thing, getting rid of all the inappropriate thoughts about the redhead he’s been storing in the back of his mind from day one and making his brain occupied with something else, and he should do it. He’s been telling himself he should do it since he woke up this morning, with a smiling Gallagher lying next to him, so he could have a normal and professional working relationship like everyone else.

But he can’t. He simply can’t.

And he knows good and well that it’s different from last time when he got pissed at Luke’s words and clobbered him because he didn’t want to come out in front of Gallagher. This time, is a whole new story.

“Thanks man,” he says, “But I’m not…”

“He’s not gonna take your offer,” Mickey doesn’t get to finish his line though as Gallagher abruptly cuts in, face stern while shoulder tensed as if he’s facing an enemy whom he would like to kill brutally. “He lied to you.”

Luke raises an eyebrow. “About what?”

That’s a question Mickey wants to ask as well.

“That I’m his friend,” Gallagher smiles, slowly and gracefully, which kinda makes Mickey wanna run away from him. “But the thing is, I’m really not,” he pauses, like he’s having difficulty picking out the right words, and the instinct of running screams louder and louder in Mickey’s mind. “I’m his boyfriend.”

And with that, he grabs Mickey by the back of his neck and pulls him in close, kissing him square on the lips in the middle of a crowded lobby.


	6. Chapter 6

When Mickey came out to Mandy at her 17th birthday party, she asked him whether he was going to have a boyfriend and end up with those country houses and white fences and pomeranians just like in those gross gay films she once watched.

Mickey simply told her to fuck off.

He’s never pictured himself as a man of steady relationships. It’s just too gay, and too unrealistic. Guys learn to protect themselves by never falling for anyone else growing up with a dad like Terry. But even Mickey can’t fool himself anymore when standing there among those revellers, neck held by Gallagher so hard he’s sure there’s gonna leave some fucking bruises afterwards, that he’s losing his heart to this redhead like a 15-year-old teenage girl.

Well, Okay, maybe not losing his heart—he’s not that pathetic thank you very much. But at least he’s having a serious crush now.

And he knows he should push Gallagher away. For the whole Chicago PD’s sake they can’t possibly have some news that says ‘TWO DETECTIVES MAKING OUT IN A STRIP CLUB’ grab the front page of Chicago Tribune. But he’s got this strange feeling like he’s drifting away as Gallagher bites and sucks and kisses his lips and it’s when Gallagher’s hands start to sneak into his shirt and the whistles floating around them indistinctively become louder that he finally remembers the reason he’s here for, and slaps Gallagher’s hand away.

“Ouch!” Gallagher steps back a little, looking both horny and puzzled, green eyes still clouded with pure lust. “What’s that for?” he sounds terribly like a kicked puppy.

The impulse to roll his eyes is more than Mickey could handle. “Get a grip, Gallagher,” he turns around and meets a smirking Luke, who leans against the counter nearby and holds a glass of cocktail in his hand, evidently enjoying a great show here.

“So you really are gay and he’s in fact your boyfriend,” he grins broadly, “Nice.”

“Shut up,” Mickey scowls and nearly groans at the mooning look given by the redhead when he realizes he didn’t rush to deny the accusation the way he used to. Chewing his lips, he asks, “Do you know where Taylor has gone?”

Luke shrugs lazily. “The back alley maybe? The girls always smoke there.”

“Back alley it is then,” Mickey mutters and gestures at Gallagher, capturing the chance to get away from this Luke guy at long last.

“Hey, where are you going?” he can still hear Luke shouting behind him though, like he’s being haunted by a lousy ghost. “Seriously, you can come to my house with your boyfriend. I won’t mind! I’m always up for a threesome.”

“And I’m always up for a fag bash,” Mickey grunts with a low voice.

Gallagher just laughs.

They remain silent as they move towards the back door. It’s mostly because of Mickey; he has no idea how to keep a straight face while making those stupid small talks with Gallagher after the whole boyfriend thing, although he’s dying to say something, anything, to break this strange silence in spite of the deafening music buzzing around them.

Okay, so he’s terrible at expressing himself. Sue him.

Fortunately, Gallagher’s pretty good at breaking things loose and is definitely not afraid to talk it through, especially when Mickey’s staring to soften up a little bit. “So I gather you’re not mad at what he said, huh?”

Mickey wants to play dumb; he really does. He wants to act like he can’t hear the redhead’s words since the music is too fucking loud, but he guesses there should be a bottom line somewhere even for Gallagher and the way Gallagher’s been looking at him is making it more and more difficult to say something harsh and disclaimatory. He’d never thought he could be this weak.

“Don’t get your hope up,” he mumbles.

Gallagher smiles, teeth flashing in the dim light like a cat walks on air. Mickey absolutely hates this particular look of Gallagher’s, but oh how desperately he fucking loves it in the same time. God. He’s even worse than a teenage girl.

“We’ll talk about it later though, right?” Gallagher asks as Mickey sticks his head out of the back door to see if he could find Taylor or Amber, voice brimming with so much excitement Mickey’s sort of feeling second-embarrassed for him.

“In your dream, yeah,” Mickey snorts. Fuck if he’s gonna talk about this with Gallagher when he’s already told the redhead what they had was simply a one night stand. He’s not opposed to the idea of them being in a relationship, yes, and he knows he’s falling for a guy who he’s merely known for no more than four days, but that doesn’t mean he’s really going to be Gallagher’s fucking boyfriend. He’s still got some dignity left if Gallagher hasn’t noticed.

“But I thought…” Gallagher opens his mouth but nothing comes out, as Mickey suddenly straightens up and shhes him, eyes fixed on two vague figures drawing close to each other in a covert corner. Gallagher narrows his eyes. “Are those two Taylor and Amber?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Mickey frowns deeply, a little bewildered at the seemingly delightful look on the faces of both girls’, but then recalls Luke once said Taylor’s not quite interested in selling Amber to Welch so despite the indifference, or even antipathy they manifested when they talked about each other, they might as well be friends. The dubious part is, why would they lie?

“Taylor!” Mickey calls out and the two girls jump away from each other immediately.

“Detective?” Taylor hesitates for a moment before walking to them, a tinge of red spreading across her cheeks. That black eye she got from her husband Crawford is lightly fading, yet still distinctive against her pale skin. “Is something wrong?”

“I’ve got some news for you. We’d better sit down.” Mickey smiles faintly. “How’s your eye going?”

“Much better now, thanks for asking,” says Taylor, “What is it? You can talk to me here. It’s pretty quiet.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk about that in a back alley,” Mickey shrugs and watches Amber slowly marching towards them from behind, looking tired but collected, the flickering sparks of the cigarette butt lighting up her full red lips. She’s wearing a leather jacket that’s big enough to cover most of her body, two thin long legs shown under it.

“Detectives,” she smiles.

“You two seem close,” says Mickey casually.

“If there isn’t any benefits quarrel, then yes, we’re close,” Amber admits, “I’ve been working here for a long time after all.”

“Is that why Taylor didn’t sell you to Welch?” asks Gallagher.

Before Amber can say anything, Taylor cuts in. “She’s worth more money than the sum Welch’s willing to pay.”

“So you know he’s actually Welch?” Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up.

Taylor sniffs coldly. “Amber told me. I know he’s creepy, but I would have never imagined, for the love of god, that he’s such a sick pervert. So what is it exactly you wanted to tell me? You’re not here to interrogate us again, are you?”

Mickey rolls his eyes and sighs. “Fine. It’s bad news though. About your husband.”

“What did he do this time?” Taylor doesn’t seem surprised at all, folding her arms while standing still. “Killed a puppy?”

“Well, apparently killing a puppy can no longer satisfy him,” says Mickey, “He came to us, claiming he’s responsible for Welch’s murder.”

“What?” Taylor widens her eyes, blanching instantly. “The fuck? That’s impossible. He’s got no motive!”

“Eh, he does,” says Gallagher, “He thought you were seeing Welch.”

“Welch? I was seeing Welch? What was he even thinking?!” Taylor exclaims and seems scarcely able to control her voice. “I was just… just… just having social intercourse with him! He was a fucking regular!”

“Right, but your husband didn’t think so,” says Mickey, “And it’s hardly beyond imagination that he would commit such crime. He’s quite violent himself, isn’t he?”

Taylor gives out a heavy sigh. “If you’re referring to the black eye, then yes, he does have a habit of beating me on a regular basis. But it’s nothing serious. I mean, he might be outrageous sometimes, but he’s never murderous.”

“Well, you can never really understand a man,” Mickey says before Gallagher gives him a rather strange look, “So did you notice what he’s like that night? Was he in a bad mood?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t with him that day,” replies Taylor in a bitter tone, “I didn’t go home until three. He was fast asleep by then.”

“It’s OK, Taylor,” Amber pats her on the shoulder, saying, “Surely he didn’t plan on killing Welch at first. We’ll have the lawyer work on that. And besides, I don’t think any of the jurors would care about a monster like Welch.”

She’s right. It’s safe to say no one’s going to mourn for Isaac Welch and there would probably be general rejoicing at the news of Welch’s death, but it’s none of Mickey’s business. What he’s obliged to do is to arrest the murderer and while he’s currently having Greg Crawford in custody, he still feels like he’s missing something that is remarkably important.

“I need to… I need to sit down,” says Taylor with a ghastly smile plastering on her face, “You are right, detective; we shouldn’t talk about this here. Can I see him?”

Mickey nods drily. “Come tomorrow.”

Taylor murmurs a ‘thank you’ and totters past Mickey as he steps aside. Amber is on her heels within seconds, putting her arms around Taylor’s shoulder like some sort of comfort, and whispers something in her ear. Taylor laughs softly and whispers back, her head leaning so close to Amber those lips of hers are practically touching Amber’s cheek, but neither of them seems to care.

“Why didn’t I notice they were this close?” asks Mickey after long silence, eyes following the two girls’ backs without even blinking.

“They never showed up with the other one around before, I guess,” says Gallagher.

“Right,” Mickey murmurs under his breath, “They know they can’t fake it.”

“Fake what?” Gallagher turns to look at him, raising en eyebrow.

“Nothing,” Mickey lowers his head to avoid Gallagher’s eyes, feeling a little flustered all of a sudden, “We should go back to the department. I need to ask Crawford something.”

“About what?”

“You’ll know,” Mickey’s kinda annoyed at having to go back to the crowded place and fails to catch the glimpse of frustration flashing across Gallagher’s eyes. It’s when they are finally out of the club, getting ready for the departure (and thank fuck Luke’s out of sight by the time they went back) that Gallagher says, “So this is your way of doing things then.”

“What?” Mickey’s a little taken aback by the edge of cynicism shown in Gallagher’s voice. But then again, he’s anything but stupid, and soon realizes what Gallagher’s really talking about.

“Just go with the flow and don’t talk, huh?”

Mickey wants to smash his face into the steering wheel and never talk to Gallagher again. Fine, he gets it, that Gallagher’s a bullhead who refuses to give up until he’s fed with a proper answer, and if Mickey gives him his due it’s actually a fair quality a cop could use. It’s just not that prepossessing when it comes to a specific topic.

“Can we not discuss this right now? There’s a fucking murder that needs our absolute priority, man,” Mickey grunts with a sort of guilty haste, eyes kept straight ahead instead of turning around to face the redhead.

“So when will we discuss it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Exactly,” Gallagher sighs and pauses for a while, looking somewhat sulky with his lips pursed up tightly. Mickey’s never seen him like this, but on the other hand they’ve only met for several days so it’s only natural he’s not yet familiar with every aspect of this redhead. “You know, technically I’ve known you for a long time.”

“Eh, you’ve been secretly stalking me?”

“Fuck you,” Gallagher laughs shortly before saying, “Mandy told me a lot about you. Not only the fact that you are gay,” he laughs again and it earns him a death glare from Mickey. “She told me how you protected her from those bullies when you two transferred to the new school after the adoption. She adores you.”

“And calls me assface?”

Gallagher smiles tenderly. “Maybe that’s just how Milkovichs express their feelings.”

Now Mickey’s smart enough not to comment on that.

“Sometimes she would talk non-stop about you when she got drunk, threatening that you would come over and give Lip a sound thrashing if Lip didn’t treat her well,” says Gallagher, “And I kept wondering what kind of guy you were to have a girl like Mandy worship you like that.”

Mickey bites his lip and asks hesitantly after a whole minute of silence, “So were you disappointed? When you finally saw me?”

Staring directly at him, Gallagher says softly, “No.”

The butterfly in Mickey’s stomach is starting to flutter all over again. It’s all very disturbing yet not disagreeable, making Mickey want to jam on the brake and hold Gallagher’s face and kiss him with all the force Mickey possesses in his small body. And he tells himself no. Hell no. Gallagher’s his partner and no matter what this redhead says he’s still basically a stranger to Mickey and for fuck’s sake what they had was just a fucking fling.

And he’s already made his mind, making it perfectly clear to Gallagher that they’re not going to be a couple or whatever it is Gallagher’s been hoping for. Mickey Milkovich’s a man of composure and he will not lose such battle to a redhead simply because he’s got this really warm smile and cute green eyes that shine with pure admiration.

No, he’ll uphold his principle, and act like a real grown-up.

So why would he get this funny feeling that all of this could just be an intense but useless struggle?

+++

Crawford was reading a fucking book when Mickey and Gallagher return to the department, looking utterly composed as if he’s not the one that’s going to be sentenced for murder. He even smiles as the guard takes him to the interrogation room, lumping down opposite Mickey with the detective staring at him solemnly.

“So, what’s up?” Crawford asks.

Mickey can’t help but turning around slightly and shoots the wall behind him a glance. He knows Gallagher’s watching them from outside, the dead earnest on the redhead’s face as he confronted Mickey the minute they stepped out of the car rolling past his mind.

_“So what’s it you want to ask Crawford?”_

_“Oh Jesus,” are all the soldiers this stubborn? ‘Cause Mickey’s hardly able to handle this anymore. “I thought we’re over this.”_

_“No, we’re not.” Gallagher folds his arms and stares at Mickey, in a way that Mickey really shouldn’t find it adorable but he does, pathetically. “What I agreed not to talk about is not this. So what is it?”_

_“Fine, you win,” Mickey raises his arms in surrender and says, “It’s just a theory so I don’t wanna blurt out until I’ve confirmed it. I think Taylor lied to us about the whole she wasn’t with Crawford that night thing.”_

_“How do you know?”_

_“Well, my guts told me so,” says Mickey, “And my guts’ barely wrong.”_

_“Oh, is that so?”_

_Giving him the finger, Mickey grunts, “I told you; it’s just a theory. And there’s something else… something between Taylor and Amber… it bothers me.”_

_Gallagher tilts his head, having no idea what Mickey means. “That they are friends?”_

_“That they may be more than friends,” says Mickey, “At least they absolutely aren’t that kind of friends Amber claimed that would argue over money.”_

_Gallagher widens his eyes. “Are you implying that they are…?”_

_The incredulity in his voice easily gets Mickey’s goat as expected. “See? That’s exactly why I didn’t want to tell you. Now I’m just insane to you.”_

_“No! No, you’re in no way insane,” Gallagher exclaims instantly, “I’m just… I don’t get it.”_

_“They were too comfortable with each other’s company, you know?” Mickey shrugs, “Normal friends wouldn’t act like that. It’s just something you can’t…”_

_“You can’t fake?” Gallagher cuts in, looking into Mickey’s eyes._

_Somehow embarrassed, Mickey looks away. “Yes.”_

Shit. He’s thinking about that damn redhead again. Mickey takes a deep breath and turning back to Crawford, the latter lazily sitting there with his legs crossed. “You seem relaxed.”

“I’m waiting for my lawyer,” Crawford grins, “I’m sure I’ll be taken good care of.”

“Fine. But before that, I need to confirm something,” Mickey pauses and lightly taps on the table with his pen, “You said it was about 12 when you gave Welch a visit, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Nobody noticed? Even your wife? She should be with you that night, no? She told us she was at home that night.”

For a moment Crawford raises his eyebrow and looks a little surprised. But then he just says, “She’s always a sound sleeper, and I made sure to be as quiet as possible. So no, I don’t think she ever noticed.”

A curious little smile touches the corner of Mickey’s lips. “Fair enough. I’ve got another question though. Are Taylor and Amber Hendricks close?”

“Amber Hendricks?” it takes Crawford a minute to remember who that is. “Oh, you mean that girl dances in Taylor’s club. Yeah, they are pretty close. Hendricks’ a senior employee and Taylor and her went through a lot, I guess. She would come over to my house when I’m out of town. Girl’s night or some shit like that. What?”

“Nothing. Thanks anyway,” Mickey strides out of the room and lets out a snort as soon as soon as the door behind him closes, Gallagher standing beside him, frowning. “Fuckers.”

“Taylor told us she wasn’t home until three,” says Gallagher, “They’re both lying. You were right.”

“Yep. Obviously the Crawfords didn’t take everything into consideration,” rubbing his bottom lip, Mickey grins, triumphantly. “I know it! I know there’s something wrong. Didn’t go home until three my ass!”

“And you were also right about them being really good friends,” Gallagher sighs, “They were playing with us this whole time.”

“They have too much confidence in themselves. But thanks to that, it’s our turn now,” Mickey smirks like a seven-year-old who just wins a running race, “I need Taylor Crawford and Amber Hendricks here ASAP. I’ve got tons of questions for them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sooooooo sorry for the delay! I promise I would post the last chapter as soon as I can.


	7. Chapter 7

Amber’s exceptionally cross when Mickey walks into the interrogation room. “What is it with you people?” she exclaims, “Oh, I get it. You just won’t be satisfied until I’m convicted!”

“Calm down, Amber. I just wanna ask you something,” says Mickey casually, not caring a nut about the glare Amber’s shooting at him.

“Then why is Taylor here as well?”

“She’s next,” replies Gallagher. He’s tired of standing outside alone, and decides to offer his service here by sitting next to Mickey and playing good cop bad cop with his partner. Mickey’s not sure which part belongs to him though; he’s always the one to play tough, but Gallagher’s apparently not in a very pleased mood.

Frowning, Amber folds her arms and asks, “It’s her husband who killed that bastard. She ain’t got nothing to do with it. Why are you guys interested in her?”

“Oh, come on, Amber. We know,” Mickey smiles, the corner of his mouth suggesting a trace of irony. “That you two are together.”

The lamp hanging above them swings a little, and makes this small but shrill noise that sounds terribly like a weeping baby. Mickey hates this noise; it reminds him of the old, crappy chandelier that got pawned to pay off Terry’s gambling debt. He clenches his lips and focuses on the girl sitting opposite to him, who looks as white as a sheet all of a sudden.

“This is, this is fucking crazy,” she stutters and looks away from Mickey, eyes fixed on a corner of the table that’s covered with grease spots. “I need an attorney. I need an attorney and I’m not going to say anything until he’s here.”

She nearly jumps when Gallagher slaps the table, hard. “Don’t toy with us, Amber,” he says, “Was it fun to watch us walk into the trap you two set for us?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look, Amber, we won’t bring you in unless we’ve collected enough evidence against you,” Mickey sighs, trying to be as tender as he can possibly manage, “You are a smart girl. You should know what to do.”

Gallagher darts a glance at him, looking relatively surprised as if he’s never imagined Mickey could be this gentle. Mickey wants to slap him on the back of his head.

Amber snorts. “Bullshit. Taylor’s my boss, that’s all.”

“Really?” Mickey laughs shortly as Amber glowers at him. “Well, personally I wouldn’t care for calling my boss seven times a day.” 

The thing is, the minute they start to have doubts that Taylor and Amber may have been acting in concert, a large amount of little details that they never thought could be worth looking into pops out. The phone call logs of these two girls’, for example, are most intriguing.

Obviously Amber’s not happy about Mickey pulling out her phone call logs. She bites her lip and stares at Mickey, in a way Mickey’s afraid she’d eat him alive right off the bat if she had the chance. “It’s just phone calls.”

Mickey looks into Amber’s eyes with disapproval. “Seriously? You two call each other every day and you expect me to believe it’s just phone calls? Amber, I wasn’t born yesterday.” 

Regretfully Amber’s not to be swayed at all from Mickey’s words. “I told you. I won’t say anything until my attorney arrives.”

“Leave her then,” Gallagher interrupts with visible impatience, “At least now we know Crawford may not be our real killer. We shall release him.”

“What?” Amber’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh right, I almost forget it,” Mickey smiles, “What should we tell him if he asks why we let him out?”

“Just show him these logs,” answers Gallagher.

“What?” Amber jumps to her feet before Gallagher’s voice has died away. “You can’t do that!”

Normally Mickey wouldn’t appreciate watching a woman stiffening in panic, but he’s sure Amber won’t mind. Sometimes he would compare Amber with Mandy; they’re both strong and independent, trying to protect those they love in their own ways. He wonders whether Mandy would also attempt to murder people if they still lived with Terry, stuck in that trashy neighborhood and gradually rotting there. She probably would. She’s just badass like that.

But Mickey wouldn’t. He’s never capable of killing. Maybe that’s why Terry used to leather him black and blue; he’d already seen through him and found out he’s actually a pussy.

“Oh, we certainly can,” says Gallagher, grinning, “Besides, why not? Don’t tell me Crawford’s gonna get jealous and beat Taylor. In fact, I doubt if he would beat her at all. Your lies are making everything you told us hard to believe.”

“I’m not telling lies!” shouts Amber. It’s quite impressing that a girl like her should be able to make such loud noise. “He’s a fucking bastard! You can’t let him out.”

“Relax, Amber,” Mickey smiles. “I thought Taylor was just your boss.”

Amber stares at Mickey with an incredulous look on her face. “You’re threatening me,” she mutters, “Are you threatening me?”

“With what?” Mickey asks and suddenly feels wearier than ever, sitting there and managing to beat back the waves of exhaustion that surges down his spine. He thinks of the photos of those brunettes, the dairies Welch kept in his computer, the flustered expression Krystal wore when she first came into the department, the writhing bodies shoving against each other in the strip club, the tender look Amber gave to Taylor in the dim light, and Welch’s body being dumped in the barren farmland like a goddamned rag doll.

Mickey usually loves being a cop. But sometimes, he fucking hates it.

He’s a little startled when Gallagher gently touches the back of his left hand under the table like some sort of reassurance. He doesn’t pull his hand away though, keeping it there on his knee and feeling Gallagher’s fingers slowly stroking his skin.

“Who is it, Amber?” he asks bluntly. “Who killed Welch?”

+++

“It’s me,” says Taylor.

Mickey looks up from his paperwork and frankly saying, is more than a little surprised about Taylor’s confession. But judging from the look on her face, it’s highly possible that she has already seen all of these coming. 

“I thought you would deny,” says Mickey, “Just like Amber. It’s just phone calls after all.”

“Oh it’s more than that and you and I both know it,” says Taylor matter-of-factly, “I shouldn’t have gotten Greg involved in. Now I’m again stuck with him. I just didn’t… How did you figure it out?”

“What, about you and Amber?” Mickey shrugs and replies with a low voice, “To tell you the truth… I really don’t know. I guess there are some things about you that just don’t fit.”

“So it was only a theory?”

“A stupid theory that comes along with pretty gripping evidence, yes.”

“Perceptive.”

“Thanks,” rubbing his temple, Mickey looks at Taylor with a tired smile. “It was cruel though, don’t you think? To fool your husband like that.”

“Did you tell him then?”

“No.”

“He would beat me to death if he finds out,” says Taylor in a tone that’s way too nonchalant as though she’s not talking about herself. “He did hit me, you know. He gets violent when he’s drunk, and he’s an alcoholic. That’s why Amber and I got along in the first place—her father was also an alcoholic before he killed himself in a car accident.”

“So you two fell in love,” says Gallagher. He’s been sitting next to Mickey without a word since Taylor got in, and god knows what he’s been thinking about. Mickey’s just glad he’s mercifully withdrawn his hand. 

Taylor responds promptly. “Yes,” she looks proud—proud of being in love with Amber. Mickey wonders if she’s still proud when she killed Welch and tried to make a scapegoat of her alcoholic husband. “So when Welch came to me, claiming he wanted to buy Amber, I didn’t agree. He was persistent though, pestering me all day with his fucking money, and threatened me.”

“So you went to his apartment?”

“He thought it was Amber because I texted him with her phone. He wouldn’t have answered the door if he’d know it was actually me,” Taylor admits tonelessly, “But I wasn’t planning on killing him. It was an accident.”

There isn’t any trace of guilt Mickey could find on her face, only utter indifference and maybe a little bit of complacency. Did she look like this when she talked Crawford into this mess? God. She is cruel.

“The one who dumped Welch’s body was your husband,” says Mickey, “Where were you? In that white Camery?”

Taylor nods. “I told him I killed someone. He… he agreed to help me. But we didn’t know Welch was a monster like that until you investigated Amber…”

It’s actually rather straightforward. Taylor asked Crawford to be the scapegoat once she found out the guy she killed was a pervert and a serial killer, promising her husband she would find him a best lawyer to get him out of jail. “There were such precedents,” said she. Only there weren’t and Mickey seriously doubts if she would really find him a good lawyer. 

The only thing Mickey doesn’t understand, is why in hell Greg Crawford would even agree. It definitely is be the silliest thing to do.

“There’s one thing you have to know and it’s the reason I chose to tell you the truth,” Taylor pauses for a moment and then says, “Amber is innocent. She’s got nothing to do with it.”

Mickey laughs. “You certainly care for her, don’t you? But sorry darling,” he stands up and takes a step backward, “She’s the complice. And all three of you, are going to jail.”

+++

It’s almost nine when everything’s done, paper filled and files sorted, and no one’s left in the office except Mickey and Gallagher. Gallagher’s obviously exhausted, yawning every now and then, yet still staring at Mickey intensely as if Mickey’s gonna disappear if he blinks.

“They found the murder weapon in Crawford’s house,” Mickey says as he straightens up and puts on his jacket, “Taylor kept it in her wardrobe.”

“So this is it then,” Gallagher quickly rises, “How many years do you think they would get?”

“How could I know?” Mickey fishes out a cigarette from his pocket and hands it to Gallagher, “You want one?”

Smiling, Gallagher shakes his head, “No, thanks. I quit smoking a long time ago.”

It’s literally a miracle that someone could actually quit smoking. Mickey mumbles a ‘fine’ and lights it, inhaling deeply. It is so quiet here, the clock behind them ticking louder and louder until it sounds like the thunder in a raging storm, and Mickey can’t help but noticing the gazes Gallagher fixes on him. He recollects the look Taylor gave to Amber and thinks, shit.

“I went to see Crawford moments ago,” Gallagher opens his mouth, probably unable to handle this ever lasting silence anymore. 

“How’s he doing?”

“Angry.”

“He’s got the right to be,” Mickey snorts, “Taylor must have designed to have him take the blame from the very beginning. She could have helped him carry the body in order to make all that shit quicker, but she didn’t. Instead, she hid in that car so that no one could possibly see her. Clever.”

“She hates him so it’s not that unexpected,” says Gallagher.

“Did he tell you why he agreed to play along?” 

“Yep,” Gallagher sighs. The look on his face is almost inexplicable, but before Mickey could ask he continues, “He said, he was her husband.”

That’s an answer Mickey didn’t expect. He’d thought maybe Taylor promised him a large sum of money or something. “He loves her then,” he says softly.

“He loves her, but he beats her,” Gallagher says, “And he’d never thought his wife would set him up.”

“What a complicated world,” Mickey takes the last drag of his cigarette and blows a perfectly round smoke ring. “Anyway, it’s over. We should go.”

Gallagher doesn’t offer to drive Mickey home this time and if Mickey’s being completely honest, he feels a little lonely when he sits in his car, listening to the terrible music playing on the radio. But this is exactly what his life’s supposed to be and he’s been living this shit for 27 years so he really shouldn’t complain right now. And if he thinks of the damn Gallagher when he sees the red light, it’s because he’s becoming incurably insane.

When he gets home it’s nearly ten, but he isn’t hungry at all even if he hasn’t eaten anything. There’s still a six pack of lager stored in the fridge, so he takes them out and turns up the telly, letting the gibberish float in the air and fill in the empty space around him. By the time his door gets knocked he’s already finished the third beer, tipsy and somehow annoyed.

When he opens the door and makes out the guy who’s standing in front of him in the doorway after a whole moment, he’s so taken aback the words totally fail him as though his tongue’s gotten by the cat. It takes him at least five minutes to realize he’s not imagining things, but the alcohol he ingested still makes him think he kinda is.

“Gallagher,” he mutters, “What the fuck are you here for?”

The redhead just smiles at him, his face mixed up with the faint glow of light, even the freckles are starting to shine like some sort of star dust. “Can I come in?” he asks, and without waiting for Mickey’s answer he just steps inside, the casualness and confidence in his movements makes Mickey wonder if this place is actually his.

“I called Jacqueline’s parents,” Gallagher stands beside the table as Mickey closes the door, “You know, the girl who got killed by Welch here in Chicago years ago?”

“Yeah I remember,” Mickey takes a deep breath. “So?”

“They’re pretty glad, hearing the news of Welch’s death.”

“What are you trying to say?” Mickey sniffs and opens his forth beer, “That What Taylor did was right? Gallagher, there’s nothing right about murder and it’s what we do. Catch the murderer. No matter whom they kill or why they kill. You can’t let what you think…”

“Yeah, I know,” Gallagher interrupts him hurriedly, “That’s not what I mean. I was just thinking, you know, you are always the one who talks about how we should stick with the evidence rather than theories, but in the end the theory that led us to Taylor was also brought up by you, so…”

He pauses, and Mickey has absolutely no idea what he’s going to say, so he just stares at those pink lips of the redhead’s and feels the grogginess gradually climbing up his spine. 

Gallagher licks his bottom lip after a long moment of silence. “So maybe, I mean, maybe, you don’t really believe those things that you’ve been telling yourself to believe. And it’s not a bad thing. I…”

“Are you saying deepdown I wanna screw you and be your boyfriend?”

Gallagher widens his eyes and the look on his face is too adorable to ignore. Mickey laughs, pleased with his superior faculty of understanding, and tenderly pats Gallagher’s face. “You’re cute. You know that?”

Suddenly the annoyance that his brain was filled with just before Gallagher got here quickly fades away. He can smell the lovely scent coming from Gallagher’s skin and it reminds him of the night when they were so close, and he remembers the loneliness that’s been haunting him ever since he left the department tonight. Jesus. Who is he trying to deceive?

“Do you have any plans this weekend?” he asks before he could give it a second thought, and he blames it on the three beers.

Gallagher’s eyebrows shoot up. “Actually eh, that’s why I came here,” he smiles at Mickey, face tinged with red. “This is my first weekend back in Chicago and my sister wants me home. So I was thinking… well… do you want to go?”

“What, to the South Side?” 

“Yes,” Gallagher lowers his voice as if he’s afraid Mickey’s gonna hit him as he keeps talking. “The Milkovich house is still there. Or you can come to my house…”

“What for?”

“Eh, get to know your partner’s family?”

Mickey laughs. Gallagher bites his lip and stops, eyebrows frowning and face going white, obviously panic due to Mickey’s abrupt laughter. So he’s not that confident after all.

Mickey grins. “Okay.”

“What?”

“I said Okay,” Mickey’s grinning even harder. “Don’t make me take back my words.”

“Oh! Oh, I didn’t … I mean, I thought you would… Why did you… Oh shit,” Gallagher looks like he wants to hit himself with a baseball bat or something. “I mean, Cool.”

Mickey smiles. He knows he’s going to regret it the next morning when he’s finally sober, and he knows he’s breaking every protocol he’s been made for himself for the last 27 years, but he just solved a case and he’s currently drunk, so fuck it. 

“Do you have a hot tub back in your South Side house?” he asks.

Gallagher blinks once, twice, and then says, “I will buy one.”

“Good,” Mickey smirks, roughly shoves the redhead into the couch, steps forward and straddles his laps fully, and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished! Yeh! It's my first multi-chapters that's written in English and honestly speaking I didn't think I would actually finish this. Thank you all for reading! I love you guys<333333333333


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